


A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blackmail, Coercion, Cybersex, Fatal Attraction, Gaming, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, MMORPGs, Manipulation, Modern AU, Nuclear Warfare, Oral Sex, Political Intrigue, Revenge Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Voice Kink, consensual sex IRL, non-consensual online roleplay, politician!Ardyn, reporter!Prompto, roleplaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: A reincarnation-in-modern-times AU where Prompto is a young political reporter trying hard to make a name for himself. Enter a calm and persuasive older man, a Member of Parliament with a hidden agenda. Prompto's about to find out what you get when you mix politics, passion and a penchant for control.





	1. There in a Half Life

Prompto kicked back from his chair in the diner. He’d been waiting hours for a certain trader to arrive, a man by the name of Devon Elkton, but it didn’t look like he was going to strike lucky tonight.

_‘Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?’_

            The folk singer in the corner had started up his crooning again. Softly twanging guitar chords accompanied the man’s words, and it was pleasant enough, but the lyrics were nothing new. This guy was always here. Prompto watched him for a moment, then sighed. Staying for another drink was pointless — they’d be closing up soon.

_‘And who did you meet, my darling young one?’_

Nobody, he thought grimly. The singer carried on, oblivious to his frustration.

            Nothing for it but to try again tomorrow.

            ‘Night, Ezma,’ he murmured, waving to the aged proprietor. She gave him a small wave back. Always looked like she knew more than she let on, although nobody had ever managed to get more out of her than a recipe for garula stew. So he left. Out the door, and straight into the rain. ‘Aw, great.’

            It wasn’t exactly that odd for it to be raining in Meldacio. The whole Vesperpool region was soggy on the best of days. But still, he could bear it, because this whole area had the best pickings for quests, and he had heard rumours that talking to Devon would unlock the next part of a new puzzle. Something related to those ruins in Steyliff Grove. He so desperately wanted to know.

            He sent a group message as he walked over to the caravan.

            [Prompto Argentum] Devon’s a no show. Again

            [Gladiolus Amicitia] Damn

            By the time he had paid up for the caravan, Noctis had replied too.

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] I looked on the forums again. Nobody’s managed to catch him yet.

            [Prompto Argentum] That sorta makes me feel better?

            [Prompto Argentum] Anyway

            [Prompto Argentum] You guys still in Caem?

            [Gladiolus Amicitia] Yeah. Iggy’s on in 5, wanna raid with us?

            [Prompto Argentum] Heh … should probably log off. Early day tomorrow

            [Gladiolus Amicitia] Fair dos

            [Prompto Argentum] Night guys :))

            After that, he sorted his inventory, and prepared to log out, ticking off the little ‘RP’ icon next to his character’s display name. Coming out of the roleplaying headspace was a mental jump he was very used to. _No longer Prompto, just plain old me. Up far too late with an early start tomorrow and a whole lot of real world things to worry about._

A pinging sound hit his ears. Private message coming through. His eyes flashed down to the chat log.

            Direct Chat: [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Oi, Pål, you gonna be on tomorrow?

            Bless him, Nicholas was worried. His player character had a lot of status compared to Pål’s — compared to most people’s, actually — a bit like his status in real life, and it often made him anxious.

            Direct Chat: [Prompto Argentum] ‘course, dude. like I’d forget ;)

            Direct Chat: [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Sweet

            Direct Chat: [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Thanks, man. Really appreciate it

            Pål logged off properly then, and idly watched the game window close. It was funny, now that he thought about it; Nicholas, reluctant pampered son of an oil tycoon, wanted to escape reality and so created a character online that was essentially not too different from himself — the prince of a dying empire who didn’t want to be treated like royalty. Not that Pål and his own character were that different, either. They had the chance to reinvent themselves entirely, and they had both somehow ended up winding the circle in closer and closer to themselves in the process. Fantasy follows reality, right enough.

           

He woke up before the dawn. Curtains blowing softly — he’d left the window slightly ajar the night before. A coldness that seeped into his bones even through the thick duvet. A simple mistake.

            Getting up early was not Pål’s forte, but, well, at least he wasn’t as bad as Nicholas. Despite the aching cold, and despite the way his body rebelled, he did appreciate how calm the world was in this state. No peeping horns on the streets below, no drunken yelling either. No pounding music from late-night partying and no purr of the water tank from pre-work showers. Just a light indigo sky behind the silhouettes of buildings, seemingly trapped in time.

            Would have been nice if he had been trapped in time, because as it stood, Pål did not have any minutes to spare for a shower of his own. He had to make it to the station before the six-thirty train arrived. Not even enough time for a coffee, and barely enough to shove some product in his hair, and grab his camera, notebook and wallet before dragging himself out the door. That was as much as he needed — now, he just had to make sure he revised his notes on the train. Knew what questions to ask when he got there.

            He’d be fine. This was all just nerves.

 

Heading down to the South Coast was a smooth ride, quiet and uneventful. The chill had still not left his bones, even with the addition of a large latte, purchased on the train itself — this early in the morning, not even the small commuter’s café at the station was open. He couldn’t quite explain it. February was always a cold month, but this far south, it never felt like this - cutting to the bone. Chalk it down to his chilly awakening.

            The facility stood overlooking the sea. Grey and light sandy brown, it looked like an old sentinel carved out of the very bedrock itself. By the time he had finished the twenty minute walk from the station, sweat beading on his brow, he should have been pleased to see it.

            He tried to recall what his boss had said … something about it being from World War Two. A gunner’s tower; what remained of the old military sea defences. Now, it was a nuclear facility. Not a power station. Research. Very different thing. Easy for the public to get it confused, though, and that’s why he was here. The UN was considering drafting in amendments to the Non-Proliferation Treaty, so everything nuclear was big in the news right now, and suddenly every punter and their dog was interested, not only in what was going on internationally, but within the country’s own borders. All the major papers were out trying to get coverage. He was glad his boss had given him the chance, and as the office’s resident technophile (not to mention the only one in the political journalism department with a science degree) he ought to have been excited. But one look at the building and he felt nausea spread out in the pit of his belly, adding to the existing chill in his bones, making him feel ill at ease.

            The security guard at the gate took one look at the camera hanging round his neck — a Canon Eos, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t gotten it because it shared a name with his favourite video game universe — and held her hand out.

            ‘Identification, please.’

            ‘Oh. Sure, one sec, lemme…’ He fumbled for his wallet, then fumbled for the correct card, cursing inwardly at how unprofessional he must be coming across. Finally, and with a slightly awkward beam, he handed over his driver’s license.

            She scrutinised the card. ‘Pal?’

            ‘No, uh, it’s ‘Paul’,’ he corrected her.

            ‘Oh. Right. Sorry ‘bout that. Welcome, Pål.’ She didn’t try to pronounce the last name.

            He flashed a smile at her that was reciprocated in the barest possible way, then followed her through the gates. After being escorted down a wire-fenced path, he was told to present himself to the man at the desk just inside. More introductions, and again the confusion with the name. Only, this time, the guy at the desk was a little bit warmer than the guard had been. Older, too; looked like he’d seen his fair share of panic and politics and protocol changes. It was something about the offhand, mildly fatalistic way he spoke, and Pål noted this down in his head for later. He may want to ask him more questions. But as it stood right now, Pål let him get on with his job. The man handed Pål a lanyard, marked _Press_ , and made small talk as he registered him in the system.

            ‘Basic rules are, you can take photos of anything you like so long as you’re accompanied, ask for permission from anyone in the photos, don’t open any doors you haven’t been told to.’

            ‘Got it.’ His cheery response earned him a small smile from the man.

            ‘Most folks what come ‘ere usually ask about the hazmat suits right about now.’

            ‘Hah, seriously?’

            ‘You don’t feel uncomfortable around nuclear facilities?’

            ‘Why should I? The staff know what they’re doing.’

            The man grunted. ‘Glad to see you’ve got your head on straight. Well. Let’s take you up to meet the Overseer.’

 

The Overseer turned out to be a tough-looking woman who Pål could easily believe would shank you if you upset someone she cared about, and on top of that she would do it with style. She was dressed in a smart suit that seemed a little too un-creased, as though she had only put it on for the occasion of his visit, and yet she wore it effortlessly. Utterly no-nonsense, and somehow completely likeable. Her name was Katherine Crowe, and her eyes sparkled when Pål entered the room.

            ‘Welcome, welcome,’ she said, and he thought he detected an American twang to her voice. ‘Lovely to meet you. Found the place okay?’

            ‘Yeah, no problems at all.’

            ‘Great.’ She fiddled with the plait that reined in her wavy brown hair, and turned to the monitors on the wall. ‘Let’s put the call out for the morning brief, and we’ll get things underway. Got a few tests to run this morning that can’t be interrupted, but apart from that, we’re all yours. I’m planning to show you round, do a little Q&A, have some lunch, then we hash over the finer details of the operation. Coffee?’

            She was moving so fast through her battle plans that he barely had time to blink before a small ceramic mug was waved in his face. ‘Oh. Yeah. Thanks,’ he said, and soon he held a piping hot drink between his hands, jet black and stronger than he would ever have dared order himself. He drank it graciously, and tried not to balk at the taste.

            Moments later, Katherine Crowe had assembled the staff in the briefing room, and was up at the head of the room giving them the lowdown on the day’s activities.

            ‘We’ve got a political correspondent over here from the Times,’ — she motioned to Pål — ‘and a member of the House of Lords.’ Pål looked around at once. Everyone save for Crowe herself was dressed in simple shirts and slacks. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like they might be operating in such an officious capacity. And it also begged the question: why a Lord, and not a regular MP? It had to be something connected with the person’s area of expertise — he was well aware that many people who inherit such status often ended up with the means and the funding to get involved in a great number of things academic, things beyond the political sphere. The highborn classes, still alive and proud in the modern day. But Crowe had already moved on, and he switched his focus back to her before he missed anything. ‘So everyone, be welcoming, be informative, and be open. If you don’t want to be interviewed or appear in any press photos, that’s fine, just say so, and remember — the operation of the plant comes first and foremost, as ever. This morning’s experiment will still run at oh-nine-hundred and again at eleven-hundred hours. If you’re one of the few I called in early, it’s because I expect our guests will have questions, and I want enough manpower to cover everything while sating curiosity. Let’s make this work, people.’ Her words were met with nods and grunts of assent from round the room, and then she split off her attention. Something on the screen closest to her was blinking.

            A pause, in which Crowe bent over the controls. She tapped a button, and there, a voice over the small speaker — the man from the reception desk.

            ‘Oh, he’s arrived? Excellent — send him up,’ Crowe said, then she turned warmly to Pål. ‘You’re about to meet your fellow visitor.’

            _This must be the member of Lords._

            Pål waited with apprehension. Again, the chill from the morning thrummed in his bones, reluctant to leave.

            Then the door opened, and a man quite unlike anyone Pål had seen before walked in. He was impossibly tall, although part of that may have been the way he carried himself; full of presence and authority. His suit was dark and as it caught the light it revealed delicate embroidered patterns. Curving, elaborate shapes in barely-different shades of deep grey. A waistcoat that was as flamboyant as it was close-fitting, and a red scarf to accentuate the lot.

            ‘I apologise for my lateness, gentlemen, lady,’ he announced, tipping an imaginary hat in Crowe’s direction on the last word. His voice was every bit as rich as Pål imagined his bank account must be. And every bit as deep. He could probably sink into that sound without a second thought. It would be a good voice for audiobooks.

            The man’s hair spilled across his shoulders as he walked, wavy ends catching in folds of the scarf, and it was such a curious colour: a deep, warm brown, and as close as one could get to being red without looking unnatural. Pål found himself doubting that it had been dyed, because it looked like it fitted him so very well. That fine waving-flame style perfectly framed his square jaw and heavy brow. Everything about him was utterly striking.

            But the most striking thing by far was his eyes. They roved the room with intent, making him look like a wolf out for the kill, although his benevolent expression indicated anything but. The look held within was fierce, fanatical, and would have been terrifying if not for the calmness the man exuded. Everything else about his demeanour was as if he was reining that power in, and, like many others in the room, Pål felt drawn to him, pulled under his sway like flotsam in an overbearing current.

            Not Crowe, though. She maintained her professional jurisdiction, although a little tersely.

            ‘Lord Adrian Lyndon,’ the man said when he reached her, holding out his hand with the slightest flourish. Not too much; just enough to hint at eccentricity. ‘Member of the House of Lords, and awfully pleased to make your acquaintance.’

            ‘Katherine Crowe, facility overseer,’ she replied, and they shook hands.

            Then Adrian approached Pål and — he really was tall, wasn’t he? There was something primal about being faced with that, and it took an immense amount of control on Pål’s part not to back away.

            ‘So, you’re the reporter from the Times?’

            ‘Y-yessir, that’s me,’ Pål said, and he wondered if he was mistaken, because it looked like Adrian’s eyebrow quirked up in satisfaction at the epithet. Either way, the man was offering his hand, and so Pål took it. He was shocked at the warmth.

            ‘Delighted,’ Adrian replied, smooth as caramel. His grip was firm, and for an odd moment Pål thought he was going to move closer. But as tense as the moment came on, it faded, and Adrian moved away.

 

On to the guided tour. Katherine Crowe was keen to show off her facility, and happy to answer all the questions that came her way, from the scientific ones that Pål came up with to the increasingly leftfield ones spouted by Adrian. As they walked around, Pål kept a reasonable distance from him. He was far too overbearing — not in a bad way, more in the way that made Pål feel like he was being worn out just from the proximity.

            It was when they reached the reactor that things really heated up. Pål was blown away by the sheer complexity of the thing. He had never been inside a nuclear facility before, so everything was like presents on Christmas — new and impossibly interesting — but this stole the show. Not that it was even that big or anything. Looked a bit like a jacuzzi, set into the floor while they all stood around it, but peering over the edge showed a chamber far deeper than even the average swimming pool. And the water was blue, bright blue, like it had been dyed. It was magical.

            ‘Cherenkov radiation,’ Crowe helpfully supplied. ‘Pretty, huh?’

            He started by asking what the make and model was, and that was where the tone shifted.

            ‘It’s a SLOWPOKE reactor,’ Crowe said, and Adrian seemed to let her bask in a moment of pride before tearing it down.

            ‘Outsourcing to the Canadians, are we?’ He was scathing, but not in a way that anyone could call him out on.

            She was visibly disgruntled, and it occurred to Pål that this was a strange occurrence for Katherine Crowe. But she said nothing on the subject beyond ‘Name me a better one we make here in the UK and I’ll take it.’

            Pål tried to ameliorate the situation, get it back on track.

            ‘What does that, uh, stand for?’ Because the first thing he thought of was Pokémon.

            ‘Safe LOW-POwer Kritical Experiment,’ Crowe stated, reeling off the extended acronym by rote. ‘One of the safest reactors you can get, and the neutron flux on this baby is high as we need for our experiments.’

            ‘Ah, yes … what did you say it was, again? Studying irradiation?’ Again, Adrian, cutting in.

            ‘Of thermoplastics, yes.’

            ‘Is that for space flight?’ Pål couldn’t contain himself, and his excitable tone helped soften the mood a little.

            ‘We’ve studied some sample materials for ESA in the past,’ Crowe admitted, ‘but most of our contracts these days are military or private defence. Not nuclear munitions, I might add. It’s more … analysing the protective value certain materials would offer against nuclear radiation. Should anyone need to be fighting in fallout zones.’

            That was a scary prospect. One he hoped he would never see in his lifetime.

            ‘Does it ever operate overnight, pray tell? For I do hear that’s a common application of the SLOWPOKE unit.’ Adrian’s eyes flashed as he spoke. A dangerous, mischievous little sparkle, and Pål caught the tail end of his gaze. Was he … was he asking these antagonistic questions for Pål’s benefit?

            Crowe fixed him with a discerning look, like she was trying to mine the detail out of his face. ‘No. The facility powers down after 20:00 hours and remains so until 08:00 the following day.’

            ‘And the contracts you enter into,’ Adrian continued. ‘When you work with the military, tell me, are you sub-contracted by them, or do you function more as a service provider?’

            ‘Sub-contracted,’ Crowe said, her face growing ever more stern. ‘As a public-sector organisation, the military can’t spare the personnel, nor would we want to allow anyone into the facility to work without being properly trained.’

            ‘So you directly do the work on their behalf.’

            The impossibly azure water shimmered beneath them, its alien presence making the tension in the room seem all the more palpable.

            ‘All the work we’ve been contracted for with the military is for defence only. As I said before, this facility is optimised for irradiation studies. That’s our forte. And it fulfils part three of the three-pillar system.’

            ‘The right to peacefully use nuclear technology,’ Pål murmured.

            Crowe smiled. ‘Someone’s done his homework.’

            Pål may not have been an overachiever at school, but he had always excelled at ferreting out information. And remembering enough to get by for the task at hand. It was something that proved immensely useful in his line of work. Having her acknowledge this gave him a little flush of pride, one that only increased when he saw Adrian looking at him approvingly too.

            Crowe’s smile was benevolent, as was Adrian’s, but his gaze hinted at something else there, just beneath the surface. He couldn’t place it, exactly, but it gave him more of a thrill than when Crowe alone did it. Time for a distraction, to feed Crowe’s ego a little, to shift the focus back to her.

            ‘It checks out, though. I mean, you’re not doing anything related to weapons development. I … think it’s quite proactive, actually.’

            ‘Thank you, Pål,’ she said, with no small amount of warmth. ‘I hope the rest of the nation sees it that way.’

            ‘Heh, no problem. I’m really grateful you’re taking the time to show us all this. I know the subject matter can be a bit, well, caustic, I guess.’

            Crowe laughed that one off. ‘I hear it was harder in the sixties. You should talk to Marco Wesker up at reception if you wanna hear more about that.’

            Adrian was busy inspecting the console and the water deionisers lined up alongside it, but he slid back into the conversation now, as smoothly as if he’d never left.

            ‘One can only imagine. I ought to thank you as well, Miss Crowe. In any professional capacity, I have only ever dealt with the second pillar of the NPT. It is quite nice to see people working towards upholding the third.’

            The second pillar. Enforcing disarmament. Pål watched Adrian, watched him checking the reactor room, surveying every inch of the place with those sharp eyes, and wondered exactly what the man could have done with the opportunity and good fortune his birth right had afforded him. Where had he been before this? And why had he come here, to a benign facility in some remote location on the South Coast? It wasn’t as though he was going to be running an article on the place, like Pål was, and he already seemed to be incredibly knowledgeable. As knowledgeable as a factory inspector, even. Only, this was not an inspection.

            Unless, as his line of questioning indicated, he suspected something was amiss. Unless this was all covert.

            Pål knew he was going to have to talk to him, but he was apprehensive about that idea. Largely because he did not know how he would hold a line against someone as wilful and domineering as Adrian.

            Eh, he’d pull it off somehow. He had to — or he’d never progress at his job. _Come on, Pål, force that cheer. Determination. You can do it._

A buzz from his pocket cut through his thoughts. He surreptitiously took out his phone and glanced at the screen. Nicholas, messaging him.

            <Hey, dude, you out of your meeting yet?>

            He sighed. It wasn’t a meeting, it was an assignment. A scoop — although, nobody called it that any more. Switching his phone’s screen off with a gentle nudge of the button, Pål slipped the thing back into his jacket pocket. He’d reply later.

            The tour continued on, away from the compact reactor nestled in its eerie blue bathwater. On to cooling towers and waste storage systems and analysis labs. All incredibly fascinating, but all whirling by as Pål’s head span with so many more questions than he’d come in with. To top it all off, he was starting to feel a little out of place. And, next to Crowe and Adrian, incredibly under-dressed. With his casual jacket on, he looked more like one of the engineers than a visitor.

            A half hour later they broke for lunch, and Pål took the opportunity to reply to Nicholas.

            <I’m here all day, man. You know what my job’s like. Chill — I haven’t forgotten tonight>

            A few seconds later came the reply.

            <K cool. Galahdian Wastes, prolly wipe a few times but I gotta get that armour>

            <We’ll get it, my dude> he responded, then pocketed his phone once again. Sometimes he felt jealous of Nicholas, of the fact he had a much freer schedule than he himself did. But it was hardly Nick’s fault, and such moments never lasted long.

            After a while, the canteen started to make him feel uncomfortable. He had initially wanted to get chatting to some of the staff, but his resolve was vanishing under the weight of a thousand questions and doubts. To make matters worse, that creeping sense of feeling out of place had spiralled into a larger sense of displacement when he caught snippets of conversation from people around him. A few murmurs in the lunch queue — _Did that reporter get any shots of you? Wonder what he’ll be writing about?_ —  and he was disappointed that both Crowe and Adrian had slipped out of sight, leaving him to deal with it on his own.

            ‘What a team, huh? An MP _and_ the press?’

            ‘Stay on your best behaviour, Johnny.’ The tone was low, a warning more than a reprimand.

            He got the fear. He wouldn’t want to lose his job either.

            It was enough to dissuade him from starting up a conversation. So, after his meal was wolfed down, he headed outside to the small smoking shelter. He didn’t smoke, but he needed the space, and luckily, not only was the place damn near empty, but it had a not-entirely-obscured view of the sea too.

            He had been standing there for around ten minutes when he became aware of a presence at his side.

            ‘What a view.’

            A low, smooth voice rumbled its way into his head, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. As if from nowhere, Adrian Lyndon was beside him, broad form braced against the biting wind. He was watching the horizon with a soft, faraway look in his eyes.

            Pål recovered as quick as he could.

            ‘Yeah. It’s really nice out here.’

            ‘That it is.’ Adrian turned to face him now. ‘I was meaning to ask you, actually. Since you were so knowledgeable, not to mention _enthusiastic_ about the technology behind this facility…’

            ‘Yeah?’

            ‘Do you have a business card?’

            Pål cursed inwardly. This was the baseline currency of networking, and in his rush to leave the flat that morning, he’d completely forgotten. He could practically see his boss Cedric’s judgemental old face hovering in front of him, scowling in displeasure.

            ‘No. Sorry.’

            ‘No matter. I shall take your details, regardless, if you’ve no objection?’

            ‘Oh. Of course!’

            Adrian took out a small pen from his breast pocket, and fished about in another pocket for a small moleskine journal. He started writing Pål’s first name, and, straight off the bat, spelled it ‘Paul’.

            ‘Uh, no, it’s with a, well, a…’ He trailed off. The name for the letter escaped him, and he ended up expressing himself badly in front of the man’s intrigued gaze. ‘With a ‘aw’.’

            ‘I’m afraid I don’t really follow,’ Adrian said.

            ‘I’m Norwegian. Well, my family is.’

            ‘Ah, the land of mist and snow. Well, now, that is fascinating.’ The way the man said it was utterly charming, and yet there was something about it, hidden just beneath, that seemed sinister. Pål laughed it off. ‘Lived in London since forever though, so I’m, uh, really a Londoner.’

            ‘Be that as it may, your roots show through,’ Adrian said, and it sounded like a spell. ‘So the blond is natural, at least.’ He motioned towards Pål’s hair and Pål nodded. ‘Well,’ Adrian continued, ‘if it wasn’t for hearing about your origins, I would be tempted to think you had dyed it. The colour is quite magnificent.’

            Pål was flattered. Nobody ever really spoke this way to him, and the attention was disarming.

            ‘You think?’

            ‘Yes.’ Adrian’s tone was direct and firm, the kind of tone nobody would think twice of correcting. Pål certainly didn’t.

            ‘Um. Anyway. Shall I…?’ He gestured towards the pen and notepad, and Adrian smiled, nodded, handed them over. When he was done scribbling, Adrian studied the paper with interest.

            ‘Pål Sølvberg? Sølvberg… Lovely.’

            Was it? He had always considered the name a bother, personally. But if Adrian wanted to find it a novelty, that was fine. He glanced up at the man, watching his stubbled jawline move as he recited the words on the paper beneath his breath. When Adrian was done, he returned the gaze, and said, ‘Political _and_ investigative journalism, now there’s an illuminating combination.’

            ‘Heh, it keeps me busy enough.’

            Now Adrian handed him a card of his own. It was printed on finely-textured cream paper, with only the slightest bevelling. Good font choice, Pål found himself thinking as his eyes traced the flowing but not-too-ostentatious lettering.

            ‘I have half a mind to come up to the Times headquarters,’ Adrian mused. ‘What with all this talk of the NPT being reviewed, it would be good to get the chance to work more closely with at least one media body. Why not yours?’

            Pål kept his eyes on the sea and considered.

            ‘I don’t get it,’ he said after a while. There were a lot of things he didn’t get about the man, but he wasn’t about to bring them all up now. Especially not if he was going to get the chance to pick his brains later. He kept it simple and on-topic. ‘You haven’t seen any examples of my work yet. I mean, I could be an awful writer for all you know.’

            ‘Oh, come now, it’s not as if you write for the Guardian,’ Adrian said with a small laugh.

            Pål decided it was best not to mention that he, in fact, had a soft spot for that paper. But he watched Adrian watch him, and he got the distinct notion that this was less about what paper he wrote for than it was about the individual impression he seemed to have left on Adrian. The wind was biting at his cheeks, nipping his ears just this side of uncomfortable. That invisible force was just as hungry as Adrian looked, and Pål was overcome by the urge to flee. He had to get inside, and away from the spotlight.

 

The rest of his time at the facility was spent divided between watching experiments take place and getting a one-on-one interview with Katherine Crowe. Before the day was out, Pål got the chance to talk to Marco Wesker up at the front desk again. This ended up being one of the highlights of the day, because old Marco was keen to chat and, while his voice was brash and rough, it possessed none of that wryness, that hidden motivation, that Adrian’s seemed to. And, he was on way less of a defensive than Katherine Crowe had grown as the day wore on, so he was much better to get information out of. They wound up at the small coffee table by Marco’s desk, sitting there and sipping milky tea out of those same ceramic mugs, because Marco had realised Pål really wasn’t keen on the black sludge they called coffee there.

            ‘Yer, well, this whole building used to be a World War Two sea defence tower. Was under the National Trust until the Sixties, when they started talking about turning it into a nuclear station.’ A low whistle. ‘Eh, those were troubling days to be an engineer, I tell you that. Riots like you wouldn’t believe. Damn fools got the place mixed up with a power station — it ain’t never been a power station. Always research.’ He leaned back in his chair, letting the wheels creak on the linoleum. ‘I get the fear, though. Nobody wants a nuclear reactor in their backyard.’

            ‘True enough,’ Pål said. ‘So, I take it you don’t do much of the engineering any more?’

            ‘Well, I reached my retirement days, an’ dint fancy livin’ off that meagre old pay check. Bit old to be fixing reactors now, though. So front desk it is.’ He patted his pockets somewhat proudly. ‘This old place has survived a long time. See that you don’t let ‘em run it to the ground.’

            ‘Will do.’

            Marco beamed; a crack of sunshine in that wizened face. ‘Good stuff, lad. Good stuff. Take care, now.’

 

Outside, in the car park, Pål paused to take a shot of the facility’s main cooling tower, a shot which came out a moody grey against the sombre sky. Another pause, and he turned the camera to face himself, grinning and snapping the shot as quickly as he could to make the smile natural. A small selfie to show Nicholas later. It was something he tended to do in most new, interesting places he went, and the older he got, the harder it seemed to become to get out of the habit.

            Once he had done this, he realised he was not the only person in the car park. There, over in the opposite corner, fishing for his car keys, was Adrian. It seemed he drove an old Mustang convertible, a ghastly old thing that was clearly a collector’s item, but that looked so out of place next to his smartly-dressed figure. He waved at Pål as he left for the gates, ready to start on the twenty-minute walk back to the station, and for an awful second, Pål thought he was going to offer him a lift.

            The worst thing was, had he done so, Pål would have said yes. Not just because the chill from the morning was still biting at his bones and he would have been glad for the heat, but because he would have liked to know what music Adrian listened to while driving. You could tell a lot about people from their music choices, and Adrian was one of those people that he was compelled to know more about.

            But, as Adrian merely waved benignly at him, he waved back and continued down the path. He regretted not going up to say goodbye in person, because that voice, now. It would have been nice to hear it again.

 

Pål didn’t bother checking back at the office. The evening was one of frozen pizza and sorting through photos, and as it turned out, he had taken far more than he remembered. Organising them took a while, but overall, he was pleased he’d managed to take so many. The best ones were the moody shots of the outside of the building, and the blue water of the reactor pool.

            He hovered over the only one he’d taken with Adrian in the shot. There, that mahogany brown hair spilling out behind him as he peered over Crowe’s shoulder to inspect a control panel. He looked so curious, and yet so perfectly at-ease, as if the world was falling into place around him exactly as he expected.

            Pål closed the image previewer, uncoupled his memory card from the computer, and booted up World of Eos. Time to get lost in the game for a few hours.

            Party Chat: [Prompto] Heyaz

            Party Chat: [Noctis] Hey hey

            Pål smiled. Nicholas was here already, of course he was. He called up his friends list, saw that Nicholas was waiting over by their guild house in Cape Caem. Time to fire up the teleporter, and enter roleplay mode.

            Party Chat: [Noctis] Get yourself on voice chat, already

            Party Chat: [Prompto] Gimme a minute, man

            He fumbled for his headset.

 

Eos’s night cycle had kicked in by the time Prompto made it to Cape Caem.

            ‘Isn’t Iggy on yet?’

            Noctis looked up from where he was perched on the ground, busy crafting magic flasks.

            ‘Eh, haven’t seen him. If he doesn’t show soon we might have to start without him.’ A few more moments and he finished the flask he was currently on, and turned to face him. ‘Thanks, by the way. For coming. Means a lot.’

            ‘Hey, man, it’s cool.’

            Noctis stood up now, and handed Prompto a couple of lightning spells. ‘These ought to come in handy.’

 

The Galahdian Wastes were every bit as difficult as Noctis had said they would be. Prompto stuck to hanging back and shooting things — mostly daemons — and trying to stay out of the enemy line of fire. As expected, they wiped a few times, but an hour later they had managed to get to the centre of the ruins without needing to invite anyone else into their group.

            By the time Ignis finally showed up at Caem, they were sitting smug.

            ‘Hey, Specs, check it out.’ Noctis waved the large metal object in his hand. Ignis at first cast a sharp glance his way, and had probably been about to reprimand him for the moniker — Ignis could be rather uptight, sometimes — but the item stole his attention.

            ‘Is that a … Magitek breastplate?’

            ‘Damn right it is.’

            ‘Heh, took us _hours_ to get,’ Prompto added.

            ‘Only one hour! I thought that was pretty good.’ Noctis, all but pouting as he showed off the armour.

            ‘So what were the Wastes like?’

            ‘Oh, Ignis, all business!’ Prompto sang, but simmered down as Noctis took to responding properly.

            ‘Ah — it was pretty much what you’d expect, really. The Empire’s lain waste to the entire continent. Only saw a small part of it, but everything in the distance was on fire.’

            ‘My god.’

            ‘I can’t wait to show ‘em who’s boss,’ Noctis murmured.

            ‘Yes, it’s about time the Empire paid for the damage they’ve wrought.’

            ‘Hey, dude, we can run it again tomorrow if you want in?’ Prompto offered. ‘There’s probably more areas we can unlock.’

            ‘I would like that very much,’ Ignis said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. ‘By the way, Prompto, did you ever run into that Devon Elkton fellow?’

            ‘’Fraid not. I was gonna try again tomorrow, though. Bit late now.’

            ‘Sounds good. We’ll crack this puzzle yet. But as for now, what are your plans? I have an hour or so before I need to leave.’

            Noctis looked from Ignis to Prompto, a wry smile on his face. ‘Fishing?’

 

The fish were biting well that night. They’d taken the short trek down to Spelcray Beach, and Noctis had fished for almost another full hour under the light of Caem’s lighthouse up above. It really was a beautiful area, and Prompto was incredibly glad they had managed to secure it.

            Noctis whooped as he pulled a tide grouper from the clear waters.

            ‘I am Noctis Lucis Caelum — Prince of Lucis, King of fishing!’

            Prompto whooped in unison, and Ignis laughed softly, congratulating him. Prompto leapt into the shallow tide waters to help him lift the humongous fish out.

            After Ignis had logged out — and they could hear his three-month-old wailing on the mic, calling him away to parental duties — both Noctis and Prompto stayed up chatting in the bedroom at Caem. Noctis sorted his fishing inventory, then decided to come out of roleplay.

            ‘Just … I’m tired, man. Been a long day.’

            It took a moment, just a moment, then Pål left roleplay-mode, stopped nattering about how adorable his pet chocobo was getting, and switched to real-life best friend mode.

            ‘Oh yeah? Tell me.’

            ‘I spent all day - _all day -_ trying to come up with a speech. You know how hard that is?’

            ‘Oh. Dude. I work in the media. Public speaking sucks ass. ‘Specially if you don’t like talking.’ He paused. ‘What’s your dad got you doing now?’

            ‘Ehh.’ A frustrated exhale, then Nicholas continued. ‘There’s a gala at the end of the month. To celebrate some new deal the company’s secured with the Chinese.’

            ‘Wait, you took the position?’

            Nicholas was quiet for a moment, his player character moving through idling animations listless as a marionette.

            ‘Yeah. Well, sorta. I mean, it was more money than they were gonna offer me at the supermarket.’

            It had to be weird, accepting a pay check from your own father. Pål had never had the opportunity to be in such a position — his own father had left years ago — so he honestly didn’t know what he would have done in Nick’s position. As it stood, he offered comfort.

            ‘Hey, dude, it’s no bad thing to try it. You can always, y’know, get the experience to put on your CV and then go do something else later.’

            ‘True. I just … agh, I don’t want people to see, like, it’s my father’s company and think less of me. But yeah. Good opportunity. We’ll see.’

            ‘So what’s the speech about?’

            ‘I gotta talk about … about knowledge transfer with the youth market. How young people are the future of energy investment, all that bullshit. Be a bit of a brand evangelist,’ — and here his voice took on a slightly mocking tone — ‘be an outstanding role model for the Lyndon-Caplans.’

            With that sentence, Pål finally placed what it was that had been bugging him all day about Adrian.

            It was the name. It was Nicholas’s damn name.

Lyndon-Caplan.

            Adrian Lyndon.

            Could they be related? Seemed a bit of a stretch, but then again, that would put both Adrian and Nicholas’s father — CEO of the Exineris energy corporation — in positions of power due to birth right and good fortune. And that seemed rather suspect.

            Well, maybe less suspect in a country of sixty-five million people. Serendipitous, though? Definitely.

            He considered showing Nicholas his dumb selfie, considered telling him about his day. About Adrian. And he decided against it. Nicholas had enough matters of his own to worry about. And Pål still hadn’t figured out Adrian’s angle on the whole thing.

            He listened to Nicholas rant for a while longer, then went to bed with his stomach tied in knots, anxious about what tomorrow would bring.

 


	2. Guns and Sharp Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dubious relationship is struck up, and Prompto discovers there's more than one way to get the information he needs.  
> 

 

Adrian hadn’t been lying. This much was apparent when Pål made it into the office the following morning to see the familiar tall figure waiting by the receptionist’s desk, dark maroon hair wisping out like a halo about his head.

            ‘Pål — a pleasure to see you again.’

            ‘Hi! It’s, uh, great to see you!’

            Did he really mean that? He didn’t know. But he waved to Adrian anyway. He was overcome by the urge to flee towards the elevators, but that would hardly have been appropriate. Instead, he walked over. Said hi to Leo, busy checking his computer behind the front desk. Asked how he was doing, how were the girls, all the usual. All good.

            Then Leo turned his attention back to Adrian. ‘I’m afraid Mr. Highgate is in a meeting right now, Sir.’

            Oh, he wanted to talk to Cedric? Pål wondered what it could be about.

            Adrian didn’t seem to mind the inconvenience, however.

            ‘Perfectly understandable; after all, this is something of an impromptu visit on my part.’ Then he flashed his amber eyes toward Pål. ‘Perhaps you could be of assistance here.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Escort me to the political affairs department. And, perhaps, keep me company until your boss becomes available.’

            ‘Um, sure. Of - of course.’

            He felt like he was standing beneath the glare of a thousand heat lamps. Skin prickling, unused to the intense warmth. Unused to it, but not entirely disliking it.

            Leo waved them off as they headed towards the elevators, and returned to his duties without any second thought. The nonchalant manner in which he did it made Pål wonder: was he the only one reacting to Adrian in this way?

            The elevator ride proceeded in near-silence. Adrian was busy examining the polished rock slabs set into the wall for the most part, curious eyes dancing over the intricate grains and patterning, a small smile flitting over his face. ‘Ah, interesting. Ammonite fossil.’ He caught Pål’s eye. ‘Over sixty-five million years old, you know.’

            Something about that made him feel incredibly small.

            The spectacle continued when they reached the fifth floor. Leading Adrian into the office felt like leading a lion into a circus ring, and damn the man for his ostentatious dress sense. Again, it wasn’t overly colourful or anything, but the layers and the patterning on his suit stood out in an office full of stressed-out journalists in business casual dress. He could feel the attention turn their way, moths to a lampshade.

            Past the large meeting room, and he could see Cedric, heading a conversation inside. Probably another half hour to go, and what the hell was he going to do with Adrian in the meantime?

            Luckily, Adrian seemed incredibly interested in checking out every small detail of the room around him, stopping to talk to people who came his way, and asking all manner of questions about their work. At first this made Pål’s pulse begin to race, but thankfully, none of the questions were quite as acerbic as those he’d asked Katherine Crowe the other day in the research facility.

            Dave Aubrey, the correspondent who normally headed up Parliament coverage, recognised Adrian instantly, and struck up a conversation with him. Pål excused himself, claiming he needed to get his workspace set up.

 

He had barely sat down at his desk when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

            <Hey, man, you free?>

            Nicholas.

            In the time it took him to stare at the message and wonder if he should bother replying now, another message came through.

            <Need to talk for a sec. It’s about the game but it’s important>

            Ah, fine. He shot back a quick reply.

            <I’m at work, dude…>

            <Sorry. I just — I gotta tell you this thing. Show you, I mean. In Eos.>

            Fine. He kind of wanted to check his crafting log anyway.

            <Better be good. I’ll hop on in 5>

            <K. Meet me in Meldacio.>

            The good thing about his desk was that the screen faced the wall. Set in the corner of the room. One would have to walk up real close to see what he was doing, and he’d be lying if he said he’d never logged on to World of Eos before during work hours.

            Besides, as long as he put in his hours, nobody would care. He opened up his email client, his copy of Photoshop, and then, in a little window at the side, he booted up World of Eos.

 

By the time Prompto arrived in Meldacio, the storm sweeping the region had passed, and he splashed through puddles as he trod up to the outpost gates. There was Noctis, tapping his feet idly, surveying the cloudless sky around them.

            ‘Nice weather, for once.’

            ‘Hey, Prom. I really appreciate you hopping on.’

            ‘No probs. Gotta be quick, though. I really don’t have long.’

            ‘Okay. Well, look at this.’ He beckoned Prompto to follow, then started off down the road, heading out south. They trekked a little further down the mountain, until they were on the borders of the Risorath region entirely. Then, Noctis turned down a small side road, one Prompto had never looked at twice due to the barricades. Plus, every time he’d passed it thus far, it had been raining, all wet and misty and miserable. The small cul-de-sac seemingly held nothing of import. But Noctis was jumping the barrier and heading right down to where the tarmac met the mountainside.

            A huge wall, brickwork and cement. Looked like it once might have been a tunnel.

            ‘Dude, I don’t think this is gonna open.’

            Noctis paced in front of the entrance. ‘I know. But look.’ He pointed to a small brick at the side of the filled-in tunnel. There were small scratched marks in it, looked like runes of some kind. And, come to think of it, the brick was a totally different colour to the others that had been used to fill the thing in. Older, probably from the original structure.

            ‘What does it mean?’

            ‘I don’t have a full translation yet. Showed it to some folk on the forums and someone picked out the word “Oracle.” Someone else pointed out it looked just like the inscriptions around the Tomb of the Wise — remember, back near Keycatrich?’

            ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Prompto peered closer. ‘So … something to do with the Oracle and the Kings…’

            It meant only one thing. This was something directly related to Noctis’s plotline. As the Prince of Insomnia, as a descendant of the Kings of Lucis, it just had to be.

            ‘It’d be embarrassing if someone else managed to break in first,’ Noctis murmured.

            Prompto stared at the markings a while, but his interest wasn’t held for long. A shadow fell across the stone, and he turned to the sky.

            ‘Noct, you’re not gonna like this, but we have Imperial company.’

            ‘Damn.’

            They moved away from the wall as the dropship approached. No time to run. Barely enough time to give themselves enough space to manoeuvre.

            ‘Let’s make this quick,’ Prompto said. ‘I wanna take a few photos of this area before I go.’

            ‘Uh-huh.’ And with that, Noctis warped towards the nearest Magitek Trooper that had dropped from the ship, driving his sword in with merciless intent. Prompto summoned his gun, and joined the fray.

 

‘Pål? Oh, he sits over there.’

            Hearing his own name brought him sharply back into reality. He quickly initiated one his favourite macros — a little script that had his character cycling through the most common battle actions, targeting swathes of enemies in front of him in a neat procedural arc. Letting his earbuds drop to his lap, he glanced round the office to the source of the noise. Funny, how attuned people were to hearing their own names amid the clatter of a thousand other syllables.

            There, walking towards him, was Adrian. Evidently satiated by whatever Dave had had to say, his attention had returned to Pål. His escort, absconded from duty. Some escort.

            Shit. He tried to close down the window, but he ended up blowing it up to full-screen instead. Shit, shit _shit._ Now was a bad time for a case of ham-hands.

            Too late to fix it.

            ‘My, what is this?’ Adrian’s honeyed tone spilled out into the air, so saccharine and soft and so terribly enthused.

            ‘Oh. Uh…’

            _Crap — what the hell do I say?_

Best to settle for the truth.

            ‘It’s a, uh, online game.’

            ‘An online game?’

            ‘Yeah, where you, like, party up with friends and fight stuff.’

            He was ready to start justifying himself — _I only hopped on super quick while I’m waiting for Photoshop to open —_ but it turned out he didn’t need to. Adrian was studying the screen with interest. And this, in itself, was odd. Pål was twenty-five. People older than him didn’t usually express such interest in video games, at least, not in his experience.

            ‘Semi-real-time battle simulations? Why, that used to be my very remit.’

            Pål was aware he was staring. _His remit?_ It didn’t sound like Adrian was talking about video games. ‘What do you mean?’ He spoke cautiously, and as vaguely as possible, hoping to coax some more information out of the man, and his wariness was rewarded.

            ‘I was a special consultant with the military wargaming project many years back. Stationed out in Salisbury - I’m sure you’re aware of the project.’

            Pål damn near felt his eyes pop out of his head. Of course he had heard of it. He’d researched the place a few years back, when the military had been discussing how to pull out of Afghanistan safely. Such decisions required careful application of strategy, and sometimes with added input from the academic sector.

            Adrian had to be part of said academic sector, it was the only thing that made sense. He wondered where Adrian had studied to allow him such status outside of direct military affiliation, but decided that was a question best kept for another time.

            ‘Seriously? Heh, well, you’re welcome to raid with us any time.’

            Adrian’s eyebrows quirked. ‘Raid?’

            ‘Oh. Yeah — when you all team up to do a dungeon together or something.’

            ‘A dungeon?’

            Wait, that sounded wrong. Pål could feel the blush decorating his cheeks. If only Adrian hadn’t said that so damn loud.

            ‘An adventure map where you fight monsters and stuff,’ Pål said, although his voice had grown a little quieter. ‘Y’know, the classic nerd stuff - beating back the demon hordes, saving empires. Kinda dumb, really.’

            ‘Oh, don’t put yourself down so,’ Adrian said. ‘It’s nice to see young people having so much fun with strategy games.’

            It wasn’t just strategy, it was roleplay too, but Pål was in no way about to mention that out loud in the office after the dungeon gaffe. He’d embarrassed himself enough already, and … yeah, he could see Lana smirking away there in the corner. God damn. So he merely smiled, appreciating the kind words, and Adrian took it as initiative to continue.

            ‘So you control … these characters?’ Adrian pointed at the avatars of Prompto and Noctis, still working their way through the regiment of Magitek Troopers with merciless precision.

            ‘Oh, uh, no, this one’s me.’ Pål pointed at Prompto. ‘That one there is my friend Nicholas.’

            _‘Noctis Lucis Caelum?’_ Adrian read aloud the name hovering above the character’s head with interest.

‘Yeah that’s his name in the game.’

            ‘Hm.’ That small noise made it sound like Adrian was considering something, but no sooner had Pål wondered what it could be, then Adrian’s attention was back on the blond character again, watching his lithe form spin around, firearms targeting enemies left, right and centre, punkish attire flapping around him in the breeze. ‘Your character is quite the spry little gunslinger.’

            ‘Heh, you think? I’ve got a ways to go with the levelling, but thanks.’

            ‘I must say, I’m a little tempted by this game myself.’

            Pål laughed lightly. Not because the idea of a man like Adrian playing an MMO was ridiculous — which, of course, it was — but because he suddenly felt incredibly shy about the whole thing. To counter this feeling, he forced some conviviality. ‘Well, make sure you get the Imperial expansion, if you do. Gives you access to Niflheim. Or it should, only, nobody’s figured out how to unlock it yet.’

            ‘Niflheim? Land of Mist.’ Adrian made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. ‘Just like where you’re from.’

            Pål could not explain the odd feeling that settled in his stomach then, but he wanted to stop talking about the game. It felt too much like talking about himself, like he was somehow more exposed for doing so.

            Luckily, providence arrived in the form of an opened door and the sounds of chattering in the distance.

            ‘Yeah,’ Pål said with a small laugh. ‘Well, back to work, I guess. Looks like Cedric’s just finished with his meeting…’ He pointed toward the opposite end of the office, where a bunch of people were busy filing out of the meeting room. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to show you round anywhere else.’

            Adrian clapped a hand jovially on his shoulder. Warmth, radiating out across his shoulder blade. ‘Not to worry. It was a pleasure to see you again.’

            And with that, he strode away, allowing himself only the smallest of smiles and leaving Pål in a somewhat confused state from it all.

            It was a friendly enough touch, nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same as what Cedric might have done upon handing him a new assignment. Just the same as he might expect from any other guy in his department. So why did he feel so strange about it?

            He shoved the doubt out of his head. It wasn’t good to obsess over it.

            Direct Chat: [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Hey, man, u can stop attacking now

            Back to the screen. Oh. His character was still cycling through the macro, despite the fact that the entire troop of Magitek soldiers had been felled. He scrabbled for his keyboard, and cancelled the action. Took the photos he wanted of the site, then made his excuses to Nicholas and logged off.

 

Lunch was spent with Lana in the staff canteen. She, busy wolfing down a burrito, and he, a tuna salad that had far too little olive oil in it to taste any good.

            ‘I’m doing a piece on the humanitarian crisis in Syria,’ Lana blurted out after a particularly voracious mouthful. She was a real oddity - looked so serene and peaceful, and when she spoke publically she had the voice of an angel, but outside of her professional front, she ate like no tomorrow and had no objections to swearing like a sailor when hard pressed.

            ‘Oh yeah?’

            ‘Yeah. Lots of depressing stories to plough through. Kind of wish I was on your detail.’

            ‘Ha — nothing as depressing about mine … besides the threat of total nuclear annihilation.’

            ‘Aren’t you a bundle of joy.’

            Pål found himself studying Lana’s hair for what was possibly the first time since he had started working there. It was a much more striking silvery blonde than his own. _What would Adrian think of that?_

            He ignored his own thoughts.

            ‘Fucking bastard,’ Lana said out of nowhere, and for a second Pål worried she could hear what he was thinking about. But she was checking her phone, and the frown creasing her normally-so-smooth face was directed at whatever she was reading. Not him.

            ‘What’s up?’

            ‘Ugh. This guy I’m writing about, this fucking cocksucker … he’s just filed a case against the UN. For criticising how the Syrian regime handled this one particular case. Tryin’ to claim what they did wasn’t torture.’

            ‘Was it torture?’

            ‘The rebels are still alive and not missing any limbs. Which, of course, means nothing as to how they were treated.’ Lana’s eyes darkened and she stared into her half-finished burrito. ‘God, I wish Cedric would just station me out there.’

            ‘That’s a, uh…’

            ‘I know, right? It’s a bit dangerous. And besides, Cedric says I need more experience before I get flown out to a war zone. But … ugh, I should be where the people I’m writing about are.’

            She finished her food angrily. Pål often envied how much her heart and soul went into whatever she was writing about, but he didn’t envy her this particular assignment.

            He was quite happy to stick with nuclear reactors, for now.

 

The next few days were as quiet as they could be, for a news office, and Pål was occupied with transcribing his notes from the research facility and editing a dozen smaller pieces for immediate release. Nothing stood out, nothing was particularly interesting, until Friday came around and he logged on to World of Eos in the evening.

            He hadn’t gotten any further with the Oracle inscription, and he still hadn’t found Devon Elkton anywhere. So he was following a different lead, spending his evening solo running a Magitek facility that had sprung up along the Norduscaen border.

            The place was creepy enough as it was, and it was almost enough to make him consider switching the desk lamp in his bedroom out for the main room light, but thankfully the only enemies he’d encountered so far were solitary infantrymen and guards. No spiders, and no giant snakes, thank god.

            His friends were all offline — Nicholas was at that function his father had roped him into, and the others both had parties to go to. So when the direct message came through to his chat log, he jumped.

            ‘We really ought to stop meeting in strange facilities like this.’

            He looked at the sender. Ardyn Izunia — not a name he recognised.

            Then he turned around. A new player character had appeared behind him, and it was remarkable, really, because he knew who it was instantly, and the similarity was uncanny.

            ‘Adrian?’

            It looked like him in almost every way save for the fact that here, in Eos, his hair was a much stronger shade of red. But everything else … how had he managed to find those items of clothing? They looked just like his normal style, except more, well, flouncy. More embellished and layered. Not the kind of clothing he’d expect a new player to be able to obtain.

            He wondered how Adrian had managed to land the outfit. Wait, forget that, how had he managed to find him? Oh, of course — he would have noted the player name when he’d been hovering by his desk the other day. Okay.

            But how he would have known what server to join, now, that was the real question. And then, more suspiciously, _did he wait around for me to explore this area just so he could make that reference?_

So many questions, all racing through his head in those sparse few seconds.

            For a moment, the player character didn’t move. Then a small shuffle, and seconds later a new message popped up in the chat window.

            ‘I must say, I’m enjoying this far more than I expected to. And please, call me Ardyn.’

            Prompto right-clicked Ardyn’s player icon, and examined his stats. All of them seemed absurdly high, almost as high as his own, in fact.

            ‘How long have you been playing?’

            ‘Oh, only a couple of days.’

            And he got so far in such short time? The man was a machine.

            He still seemed to be having some trouble with the controls, though.

            ‘Doin’ all right, there?’

            _Good thing we don’t have mics connected — wouldn’t want him to hear me laugh._

‘Well, it’s this … the fighting is all well and good, but it’s the … what do you call these things? Emotes.’

            ‘Oh. Check your social menu for the shortcuts, and, uh, just type ‘em in the chat box.’

            After a moment, Ardyn waved to no-one in particular.

            ‘No,’ Prompto said, ‘I forgot to mention. If you wanna wave to me, you gotta right-click my character first, then type in the box.’

            Another moment. Then Ardyn waved to Prompto.

            ‘Yeah, like that.’ Prompto waved back.

            ‘Hmm, I think I’m getting the hang of it.’

            He faced Prompto and performed a flourishing bow. Prompto reciprocated by clapping in delight.

            ‘You got it!’

            ‘The emotes are somewhat limited. If I wanted to, extend what I’m doing, say, to reach out for a drink… How does one achieve that?’

            Was he asking for an RP lesson?

            ‘You have to forward-slash in the chat box, then type in a description of whatever it is.’

            Prompto leaned back against the lab table and folded his arms, knocking one of the test tubes behind him askew.

            ‘Like that.’

            ‘I see. It reads rather like a novel.’

            ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

            Now Ardyn moved forward, placing his hand on the table only inches away from Prompto’s hip, and after a moment’s pause, he righted the knocked-over test tube and smiled.

            ‘There. That’s much better.’

_He really was getting the hang of this rather quickly. Even if he … even if he’s a bit close right now…_

            Ardyn drew back and paced the room.

            ‘I must admit, I was hoping there would be more scope for character model manipulation.’

            ‘Well, there’s mods. I don’t know much about ways to get into the code, though. I just use what other people write.’

            ‘Hmm. This shall have to suffice, for now. Ah, it’s a whole new world compared to the wargaming I’m used to.’

            ‘I bet. I mean, the hardest thing for me was the open-world part. I’m used to MMOs that have linear storylines, but this … it’s like, whatever your player character ends up discovering gets worked in by the games masters. Or like, they leave clues out there and you form your own stories around them. But then, like, anything beyond that is just you making your own companies, your own groups and alliances.’ He became aware he was rambling — the chat log was filling up with the blue text of his own typed words. ‘Yeah. At any rate. It’s fun.’

            ‘Indeed. I am quite a fan of the concept of making your own fortune in such a world.’

            He watched Ardyn pace, watched him examine the paraphernalia hanging around the laboratory, thinking just how similar it was to watching him down on the south coast, examining Katherine Crowe’s nuclear facility.

            There were too many things he wanted to ask him. But Ardyn asked him a question first.

            ‘Do you ever use voice chat?’

            ‘Sometimes.’

            ‘You ought to turn it on now.’

 

Pål switched out of roleplay-mode entirely, reaching for his headset mic. It was one of those detachable things, and when he slotted it into place beneath his left earmuff, the gentle thump of the mic activating resounded against his eardrums.

            The apprehension was killing him. It was probably just because Adrian was so different from most people he interacted with online. What would he say? This was all so weird.

            And yet, regardless, he was continuing on with it. He configured his microphone’s volume, and got back into his gaming headspace.

            _Here we go._

 

‘Okay, I’m connected. Can you hear me?’

            A soft sigh from the other end. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ Ardyn said. ‘I much prefer talking than typing.’

            Prompto couldn’t help but agree, because Christ, his voice was so soothing to listen to. He sounded just as hypnotic as he did face-to-face. And, all at once, a sort of embarrassment came over him, and he didn’t know what to say, and he ended up sort of laughing awkwardly.

            ‘So, Prompto,’ Ardyn said, and the way he drew out the syllables made it sound like he was playing his name like an instrument. ‘I understand that, while roleplaying, we’re typically not to bring real-world subjects into the conversation?’

            ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

            ‘Understood,’ Ardyn murmured softly. ‘Should I have anything to discuss with you outside of the game, I shall contact you separately.’

            ‘Well … we could always use a different linkshell,’ Prompto said. ‘Set one up for out-of-character conversation. Hang on … I’ll do it now.’

            Moments later he had created a small chat group and invited Ardyn to it. ‘OOC stands for out-of-character,’ he explained. ‘And just typing. Best to keep the voice chat to roleplay. As much as possible, anyway.’

            Ardyn nodded. And, moments later:

            OOC Chat: [Ardyn Izunia] Cedric says you’re a bright young spark in his department. It was only one of many things we spoke about the other day, but… Merely thought you ought to know.

            ‘Heh, thanks,’ Prompto murmured into the mic. He didn’t think it worth typing that instead. Plus, his insides were sort of … glowing … at the compliment, and he doubted he could keep the satisfaction out of his voice if he tried.

            Now Ardyn motioned towards Prompto’s belt.

            ‘So, the gun is your weapon of choice. That makes sense, I suppose. Prompto Argentum, _quicksilver_ , the ready man.’

            Fuck, the way he pronounced his name sent such a surreal shiver down his spine. It was almost enough to make him check a fly hadn’t actually landed on the back of his shirt.

            ‘Yeah, it’s kind of … well, this universe uses a lot of Latin, so it kinda made sense.’

            ‘It’s quite beautiful.’

            It was?

            He tried to suppress the sharp intake of breath he made right then. Tried, and failed. And — he could have sworn he heard a light laugh from Ardyn’s end.

            ‘May I take a look at your weapon?’

            Oh. Maybe he had just been talking about the gun.

            ‘Sure, well, sorta. I can’t physically hand it over to you but I can cock it, like this, and you can snapshot it.’

            Now Ardyn appeared very interested.

            ‘You can take photos?’

            ‘Yeah, just hold down scroll lock to hide the HUD menus, then press “Print Screen”.’

            He held his gun in the ready pose, and Ardyn complied, and seconds later the notification appeared in the chat log.

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            Now Ardyn moved his focus from the gun and back to Prompto’s face. Christ, he towered over him just as much as he did in real life. He spent a moment just looking at him, and Prompto heard the smallest ‘Hmm’ noise from his mic, then…

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            ‘Did you just … take a picture of _me?’_

            ‘Consider it payment for that one of myself you took the other day.’

            Ah, so he had noticed.

            ‘I do hope you don’t mind,’ Ardyn continued, and Prompto shook his head.

            ‘Oh, uh … ’course not.’

            Whether he actually did mind or not was another matter, but he considered the photo from the facility — Adrian peering over Crowe’s shoulder, both of them looking so heavily invested in the research — and decided it was worth a few shots of his character. He didn’t want to lose the right to use what was a perfect shot for the article.

            Ardyn smiled.

            They decided to explore the facility together after that, and Prompto took the opportunity to discuss his plotline with Ardyn — where his group had gotten to thus far, how they were trying desperately to unlock the Steyliff Ruins, and about the Royal Tombs that Noctis needed to visit to unlock his ultimate power. And, of course, about their desire to be the first group to unlock access to Niflheim. Ardyn seemed to get more engaged the more he talked about the politics of the warring nations and, bearing in mind his real-world job, he supposed that made sense.

            But their time adventuring couldn’t last forever. Eventually Ardyn called it quits.

            ‘Such a pleasure to meet you, my dear Prompto. But alas, duties call.’

            ‘Heh, no problem. Maybe next time we can finish exploring this place?’

            ‘Now that sounds like an adventure. We shall speak again soon.’ He drew away, and then came the familiar flash of purple light, the logging-out animation. And then, Prompto was left all alone in the darkened facility.

           

When Pål logged out, the first thing he did was make himself a strong cup of tea. His insides were churning away, and if there was one thing his absent mother had taught him before moving back to Norway, it was that the British tradition of a hot cup of tea and a biscuit was the best thing to adopt from the country.

            It worked, for a time. Settled his stomach, stopped it jumping in leaps and bounds. At least, until he tried to get some sleep. And it was there, in the darkness of his room, that the leftover frustration from the earlier encounter returned in full force.

            What he imagined was Ardyn rolling out his name on that silver tongue, that low timbre rumbling about inside his head. _Prompto Argentum, quicksilver, the ready man._ He had never been so in thrall to a voice before.

            Slowly, hesitantly, as if he was too scared to admit to himself what he was doing, he let his hand drift further south, until it was slipping beneath the elastic of his pants. He began toying with himself as he thought of the words. Those beautifully-spoken words. _Such a pleasure. I do hope you don’t mind…_

He sighed and stroked more thoroughly from the base of his shaft to the tip.

            _I do hope you don’t mind if I … continue what I started._

His cock twitched into life, hardening with a fierceness he hadn’t expected.

            _Consider it payment for the other day._

Fuck.

            He ended up pumping himself furiously to the thought, the memory of Adrian’s — no, _Ardyn’s_ voice. For a glorious moment, it felt as though that voice owned him completely, inside and out, and he sank into bliss, approaching orgasm with a strained cry.

            _Such a pleasure._

_We shall speak again soon._

 

Late on Saturday evening, Pål got a call from an unknown number. He hated answering the phone enough as it was anyway — although anyone who talked to him would never get that impression — so he watched it buzz on his desk for a full minute before it switched over to voicemail.

            Surprisingly, whoever was on the other end left a voicemail. Not what he would have expected had it been a telemarketing call. His hand drifted from his computer mouse, where he’d been adjusting the saturation of one of the reactor photos — such a brilliant azure blue — and tapped the phone into life. He listened.

            ‘Pål Sølvberg? Is this Pål? Look, it’s Katherine Crowe. It’s … I need…’

            It was undeniably her voice, but she sounded so on edge. Pål held his breath, determined not to miss a thing.

            ‘I need to … wait, never mind, shh … Just call me, okay?’ Then, the sounds of shuffling, and the voicemail ended.

            In the wake of the call, the air in the room seemed to lack enough oxygen. Something felt horribly wrong, to the point where Pål could feel his heart thudding all-too-fast in his chest.

            He picked up his phone again. Dialled callback. And waited.

            No answer.

            He tried again.

            Nothing.

            Well, whatever it was, he’d get hold of her eventually. She probably just wanted to make sure some breach of confidentiality wasn’t present in the article he was writing. Or maybe she was just drunk. It was a Saturday night.

            But then why call him directly? Why not the office? Why not Cedric, his boss, the person she’d arranged his visit with? This made very little sense.

            He’d try again in the morning.

 

Ardyn was something of a solitary player. Prompto saw him online over the course of the weekend, but he was always out of a party, and his character location seemed to flit all over the map from minute to minute. It seemed like he was working on _something_ , but he had no idea what. His direct messages went unanswered, that was, until late on Sunday afternoon, when a party request came through.

            It was from Ardyn, and aside from him, the group was empty. Seemed it would be a party of two.

            ‘Meet me at the ruins up near Keycatrich Trench. There’s a small stone building just off to the south there.’

            ‘Got it.’

            The good thing about being in a party was you could see the other party members’ icons if you were on the same map. So when he arrived, he followed the little pulsing blue dot until he found Ardyn, leaning casually against the stone slab wall, waiting for him. The sun was setting, and Ardyn’s hair caught the light in a fiery display.

            Further inside now, and out of the line of sight of others. Not that the game was ever that busy on Sunday afternoons.

            Ardyn stopped by a stone pillar, and rested hand on hip.

            ‘Last time you told me about your storyline, if you recall?’

            ‘Yeah.’ Prompto looked around at the barely-lit interior of the abandoned building, wondering why they were here, wondering what possible significance any of this could have. Ardyn answered his unasked question.

            ‘I have some advice for you on the Steyliff dungeon, but it all depends on how badly you want it.’

            Okay. He didn’t know exactly what Ardyn was driving at here, but the whole situation suddenly felt tense, like the air was filled with clouds ready to reach saturation point and spill over with rain.

            ‘I’m listening,’ he said carefully.

            ‘Oh, you shall have to do much more than that.’

            Prompto waited. His skin prickled, his stomach turned with apprehension, with excitement. And then the word came, and it was such a simple word.

            ‘Kneel.’

            His breath caught in his throat.

            ‘W-what?’

            ‘Did I not make myself clear? I said _kneel.’_

‘I, uh …’

            OOC Chat: [Prompto Argentum] Just need to check. Our rp doesn’t go anywhere outside of the game, right?

            OOC Chat: [Ardyn Izunia] Of course. You have my word.

            And back to the roleplay.

            ‘I’m waiting, Prompto.’

            For a moment, Prompto wondered if Ardyn had clocked him. As if he had somehow seen what he’d been doing on Friday night after their first online conversation. The shame burning hard in his chest almost rivalled his desire to please, but not quite.

            He knelt.

            An approving noise now from Ardyn.

            ‘Now look at me.’

            Prompto stared up at him obediently. The floor was cold and hard, but he didn’t care. He did as he was told.

            ‘My, you’re awfully good.’

            He didn’t know what to say. It felt like anything he would normally say would utterly ruin the mood, so he kept silent. He waited.

            ‘I should very much like to take another picture,’ Ardyn said. ‘Will you permit me?’

            He nodded.

            ‘Hm. Keep facing me, keep looking up, yes, just like that.’

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            Prompto held his pose. And then again, moments later;

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            ‘There’s a good boy.’

            Fuck. The words went straight to his cock. Was he going to … was Ardyn going to go any further?

            _God,_ if he did…

            The tension was damn unbearable. And so, it figured that Ardyn would cut it off abruptly.

            ‘Now, about those ruins,’ Ardyn said, as calmly and smoothly as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just taken a photo of him kneeling in subservience before him. ‘Let me show you what I have learned from our dear friend Devon Elkton.’

 

That night, Pål came harder than he ever thought possible, all the while imagining Ardyn still speaking to him in that low, criminally-attractive voice. It was so fucking perfect, and the sheer wrongness of imagining it being _real_ made him reach orgasm all the more intensely. _Please, Ardyn, tell me I’m a good boy again. Don’t stop._ Head spinning, and free hand gripping the bedsheets tight, he made a complete mess of himself and then fell into post-orgasmic bliss against the pillow. And, as he thought about the new information he now held, the key that would allow them to enter Steyliff Ruins, he realised this was something he could never, ever tell Nicholas.


	3. Thunder, It Roared Out a Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An untimely death throws a spanner in the works, but our dear Chancellor (or, in this case, would-be Chancellor) is there to smooth things over.  
> Poor Prompto has no idea what he's in for, but he's certainly enjoying himself. And he's about to get his wish, in a manner of speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I've extended this story by one more chapter. Four was simply not enough.
> 
> And oh whoops, the rating has increased.

 

Monday brought bad news and a complete change of plans. Cedric cornered him the moment he got into work.

            ‘Pål, have you got a minute?’

            ‘’Course. What’s up?’

            Pulling him into one of the smaller meeting rooms, Cedric closed the door softly behind them and then leaned against it. The fatigue was showing on his greying brow.

            ‘We’re going to need you to hold off on the nuclear piece.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Katherine Crowe is dead.’

            The words didn’t make sense at first. Pål heard them clearly enough, but what they meant seemed impossible. Katherine had been alive, she had been talking to him, she had…

            Shit. She had called him on Saturday night.

            Pål’s stomach lurched horribly. What if he was the last person she had tried to speak to?

            ‘Do you need to sit down?’ Cedric was looking at him with concern, and that was when he noticed he was grabbing the top rail of the office chair in front of him with a fervour that was making his knuckles turn white. His face probably looked no better. ‘It’s a bit of a shock, I know,’ Cedric said, but Pål shrugged him off.

            ‘No, I’m … I’m fine, I…’ He paused, forced his grip to relax. ‘How did she die?’

            Cedric sighed and pulled on his short grey beard. He looked out the wide meeting room windows at the clouded sky, as if it would reveal some form of enlightenment. ‘She was found in her car, along the south coast, only ten minutes from the facility. They’re doing a drug check on her body now.’

            He thought about the voicemail message. It had sounded like she had been indoors, like someone else had been there. She had said ‘Shh.’

            ‘Was there, uh … was there anyone else with her? Was she alone?’

            Now Cedric was giving him the kind of look people usually reserved for car crash victims. As if his query was something out of the ordinary, as if the only thing that could explain it was a sharp knock to the head.

            ‘You sure you’re okay?’

            ‘Yeah.’ He spoke too quickly, but he couldn’t help it. This was annoying. He wanted the attention off him.

            But it seemed he’d managed to sound casual enough, because Cedric said, ‘Good. But Pål, please. If you need to talk to anyone—’

            ‘I’m fine.’

            Cedric bit back and Pål immediately regretted cutting him off. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Cedric had already moved on.

            ‘As a result of this, we have a new assignment for you.’

 

Hours later, Pål was sat on a grimy, dust-laden chair on the Tube, staring at the obnoxious advertisement across the aisle, trying to form questions in his mind. No headphones; that was just causing more of a distraction right now. He needed to figure out what sort of things he would ask, should he get the chance to run into certain political figures once the meeting was over.

            _If you don’t mind_ , Cedric had said, _we’ll need a ground team covering Parliament during the debate. I want you to head it._

_Me?_

_Since you started with the nuclear disarmament treaty coverage, it makes the most sense._

Forget the threat of nukes - the most disarming thing about this was the fact he’d had no time to prepare. Dave Aubrey usually headed up Parliament coverage. He was older, a bit more self-assured, and always knew what to say.

            Pål was nowhere near as experienced, but he had the advantage over Dave here. He knew far more about the subject matter. And, if he really thought about it, it wasn’t such a bad thing if he mucked up a few questions here or there. He didn’t work for a TV network — none of his blunders would be recorded on camera.

            Speaking of; the camera team they did have had gone on ahead in the van. They’d offered a lift but he had declined, said he needed space to think. Not that it was currently doing him much good. The Underground was surprisingly busy for eleven in the morning, and that made it hard to focus.

            The woman next to him coughed again without covering her mouth, and damn, if he had to listen to that rasp one more time, he’d go mad.

            Only two more stops to go. He caved, and put his headphones back in.

 

A light drizzle greeted him as he walked up from Westminster Station to the Houses of Parliament. The building always looked so grand, and nigh on ridiculous with the gold facing and gothic architecture glinting in the pale light of day.

            The sun broke momentarily from a low cloud as he crossed the street, and the tower housing Big Ben cast a shadow over him. Again, that odd chill. Pål shivered, pulled his jacket tighter around him — no point zipping it up when he was so close to being indoors again — and headed on down the side of the building to rendezvous with the camera crew.

            ‘Oi oi, there y’are.’ Bertram greeted him with a pat on the back and a friendly smile. Always a friendly smile where Bertram Biggs was concerned. Pål grinned back.

            ‘Hope you didn’t miss the sun coming out just now. Would’ve made for a neat shot of Parliament.’

            ‘As if I would miss that!’ Bertram winked and knocked his companion’s shoulder. ‘Oi, Wedge, you ready to shove off? Got about five minutes before this ‘ere thing starts.’

            ‘I guess you guys aren’t staying for the whole debate?’

            ‘Nah, jes’ enough to get some shots, then we’re off again.’

            ‘Cool.’

            It wasn’t cool. While he didn’t blame them their decision — debates could last for hours — Pål didn’t really want to be left alone there. He was still reeling from the morning’s news, and here, while it was hardly his first time attending such an event, he knew hardly anyone personally.

            Well. He knew Adrian Lyndon now, but there was no guarantee that the man would show up. Parliamentary debates never necessitated attendance by any MP or Lord, and it was hardly a strange occurrence to have less than half the chamber full on any given occasion.

            He trod up to the press entrance, showed his ID card, got the usual questions and mispronunciations, then headed on inside, the cameramen following behind him.

            The lobby was bustling like it was a marketplace. People milling around more than anything, as if window shopping. Pål didn’t know where to start.

            It did not surprise him that the viewing galleries up above were fuller than usual. He went up to join the fellow press, and the members of the public who had gotten tickets to attend. How many people in the country were aware that sitting in on these meetings was free, so long as you requested a ticket?

            Judging by the turnout today, more than usual.

            He asked a few citizens why they had elected to attend, and was pleased to get a healthy variety of answers. Good for opposing viewpoints. The shuffling of bottoms on seats down below became less frequent as the seconds went by. Almost time to start.

            When the High Chancellor took the podium and introduced the topic of discussion, the room grew still. The air, usually stuffy inside the grand old hall, turned expectant, as though teetering on the edge of a heavy storm.

            ‘Right Honourable Lords and Ladies, allow me to present the topic of discussion for today’s debate. As the UN Nuclear Committee moves toward amendments to the Non-Proliferation Treaty, we need to ensure that any decision that goes through in the House of Commons regarding the United Kingdom re-negotiating our participation is carefully considered.’ The High Chancellor was a short, stern old man named Lord Stephen Roth, and he spoke in a low, yet rigorous drawl. It was a voice that sounded permanently disappointed, and doubtless it was giving everyone in the room the same childhood memory of feeling as though their homework was somehow sub-par. At any rate, everyone was listening in rapt attention.

            ‘The timeline is drawing shorter,’ Lord Roth continued, ‘and all reasons for or against continuing participation must be heard out here.’ He paused. ‘Let us begin with introductions from some witnesses who can provide a little insight to the topic. First, may I ask the Right Honourable Baron Alderwood to speak?’

            There was a shuffling of papers and a thin, white-haired man coughed and rose.

            ‘I’ve worked extensively with the drafting of the first treaty while I was still an MP,’ he began, and his voice was waxy and crooked, like he had not used it in a long time. ‘I cannot stress the importance of looking at where the budget for planning nuclear safeguarding will come from in the event we do disband from the treaty. Military defence is important, and we shall get to that, but the principal issue is how funding would be decided without the international subsidies. Particularly other parts of the EU who currently fund those projects we run within our borders under the third pillar of the treaty. They would, in all likelihood, cut support should we attempt a renegotiation of the treaty.’

            Barely-muffled groans resounded around the chamber. Discussing budgets — it always came down to that, didn’t it? Never mind the ethics of the decision. Although Baron Alderwood was far from done talking, there were already other Lords all but foaming at the mouth for the chance to stand up and speak.

            Pål sighed. This was going to be a long debate.

            He scanned the chamber below him in a little more detail, wondering if he would recognise anyone, wondering if he would see —

            And there he was. Adrian, nestled at the back row on the leftmost side of the chamber, one leg crossed over the other somewhat listlessly, hand tap-tap-tapping on the wooden backing of the empty chair in front of him. It was as though the entire proceedings amused him. If Lord Roth was like a teacher that disapproved of the class’s work, Adrian was like the one student who knew all the answers and was content to watch the rest of the class scramble to figure it out. There, the same wry expression he had worn when asking Katherine Crowe about the reactor. Pål wondered why that could be.

            He was staring and wondering so intently that, after a short while, Adrian looked up and locked eyes directly with him. Funny, how that sometimes happened with people, as though the other became aware of your gaze. Adrian smiled up at him, lascivious and all-knowing, and Pål wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

 

The discussion drew to a close four hours later. Adrian hadn’t spoken to the assembly once; a move which was entirely unexpected for someone of his character. But back in the lobby, he made an appearance while Pål was halfway through getting some good soundbites from Baron Alderwood. The interruption was expertly done — he at least had the decency to allow Alderwood to finish his sentence before stepping in and greeting them both like they were all old friends.

            ‘Isaac, Pål, fancy meeting you here.’

            All at once, that voice brought back what had happened in the game. Pål felt about ten shades too hot under the collar. He managed to hold together enough composure to eke out a reply that was coherent.

            Alderwood, now, he seemed almost relieved to see Adrian, but bit back on whatever he had been about to say. Was that … because of Pål’s presence?

            Most likely.

            It hardly mattered now, because after a brief bout of small talk, Alderwood made his excuses and left to greet some others. That left Pål facing down Adrian alone, and again, the look in the man’s eyes was so intense, prying into his soul like he was a rough gemstone undergoing inspection. It made him remember every second they had spent online since last week, and even in the room full of people who were all ignoring him, Pål felt stripped bare. There had to be a blush rising to his cheeks, there had to be; he was too warm and this had him in too much of a fluster. Hopefully nobody else would notice.

            ‘It’s, ah, nice to see you here.’

            Adrian smiled, and it was the barest of things, where only the corners of his lips turned upward, and he showed no teeth. ‘I’m very glad you came. Although I would expect no less of someone as enthusiastic as you.’

            God, why did his words seem to hit him just right? He was practically glowing with the compliment, and it was the barest of compliments at that.

            ‘Heh, well, it made me realise I haven’t been to enough of these, really.’

            ‘Oh, you’re in good company then. I ought to attend more myself.’ Adrian wheeled round and started to pace the lobby, putting a hand softly yet firmly on Pål’s shoulder, steering him gently alongside.

            Pål’s nerves shivered deliciously at the touch. _Holy fuck_. For a second he was back under the covers in his bedroom, imagining Adrian touching _just a little lower_ , tracing his fingers down, softly at first, then —

            Adrian didn’t touch him for long. The hand dropped when he sensed Pål had fallen in line sufficiently. Then he spoke, leaning in and talking in a hushed sort of whisper, as if he was talking about some real-world business deal.

            ‘I’m very much enjoying this little online empire you’ve dragged me into.’

            Dragged him into. That was a bit of an overstatement. He’d merely shown Adrian the doorway and Adrian had walked right through like an uninvited guest.

            ‘Heh, glad to hear it,’ he replied. ‘I’m … oh boy … I’m enjoying it too.’

            ‘Evidently.’ Another teasing smile from Adrian and god, it was far too hot in here. As a kindness, Adrian deflected the focus. ‘So about that hint I gave you. Have you gotten the chance to put it to good use yet?’

            ‘Ah — I’m afraid not. My friends were busy yesterday, so we never got the chance.’

            Adrian nodded curtly, caught between listening and waving to another attendee who passed them by.

            ‘So, Pål, what did you think?’

            He gave pause. Were they still talking about the game? About the roleplay?

            Eventually he settled for the safe bet. ‘It was … a bit lacklustre, actually. I expected more technical detail. Kind of important for such a technical subject, don’t you think?’

            ‘Very true.’

            The relief washing over Pål from the break in the tension was as warming as a drug. ‘And that Lord Roth, oh man… He made me feel like I was late for school or something every time he spoke.’

            At this, Adrian laughed properly — loud and hearty and still somehow sounding utterly captivating. ‘Oh, he does have that effect, doesn’t he? I’m not sure I should employ the same overbearing attitude were I in his position. Of course, I’m not the High Chancellor, but all in good time, I suppose.’

            Pål had to admire his ambition. Not that he had much time to do so, because Adrian pressed in.

            ‘A number of us are headed to the Highgate Arms in, oh,’ — he paused to check his watch — ‘just a short while now.’

He couldn’t be thinking of inviting Pål. He couldn’t be.

            ‘You should come along. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’

            Shit, he was.

            Pål spent a short moment deliberating. Should he accept, and risk making a fool of himself? It was always an option to make some quick excuse, to say he already had someplace else to be that evening.

            But there was something about Adrian that made him feel like breaking out in a cold sweat at the very idea of lying to the man. As though Adrian would sniff it out in a heartbeat. Plus, he really did want to go.

            ‘Sure, I’d… That sounds great.’

 

The pub was one of those old places that smelled like pipe tobacco and fireplace embers. It had a nostalgic sort of feel to it, and despite the ancient feeling it gave off, it was far from off-putting. Seemed the perfect place for a bunch of higher-ups to be hobnobbing and drinking the night away.

            And boy, could they drink.

            Pål started off softly, pacing himself with an inoffensive and rather weak gin and tonic. But then, such things always started that way. The more he drank, the less he had to think about Crowe. And before he knew it, he was five glasses deep in washing down his nausea, just like a responsible adult. Just like the other men and women around him.

            At some point in the evening, he revealed this fact to Adrian, who had noticed he was looking a little troubled.

            ‘Did you hear about it? About Katherine?’

            ‘Yes, I did. Terribly unfortunate.’

            ‘They said — they said it might be foul play. Well, I mean, maybe not, but they’re checking the forensics now.’

            ‘They are? Why, what do they suppose happened to her, if not an overdose?’ Adrian’s tone had grown more stern, but Pål paid it no mind. It meant a lot that Adrian was worried, too, but he just wanted to vent, here.

            ‘Ugh. I just. We were only talking to her the other day.’ He wasn’t drunk enough to let slip about the content of the message left on his phone, but he did say Katherine tried to call him. ‘And I didn’t even bother to answer. Maybe if I had … maybe…’

            A warmth across his back. Adrian had draped his arm around him.

            ‘You didn’t know. And besides, when a person is in such a state, it can be incredibly hard to do anything for them.’

            ‘I don’t know… I could’ve at least tried.’

            ‘I do admire your dedication. Hope is a good thing to have, although sadly something that many of us lose over time.’

            ‘It’s not enough,’ Pål grumbled. ‘I need to do better.’

            Adrian shifted in his seat now, turning to face him more directly. The arm across his back shifted until one hand was holding his shoulder, and the other hand moved up to his other shoulder. He was holding him like he was about to give him a pep talk, like he was about to shake him and yell some sense into him, like they did in the movies. But all that happened was Adrian clicked his tongue, a soft reprimand. And he said, ‘My dear boy, you’re already doing plenty enough.’

            Pål stared back at him, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought he was about to kiss him.

            _This could be it, oh god, this could be…_

            Adrian broke the spell with a wayward glance toward the table. ‘But look — your glass is empty. Allow me to fetch you another.’

            Pål just sat there numbly, compliant as Adrian ambled over to the bar.

            Yeah. It was stupid of him to think there was anything more there.

            He was feeling rather lightheaded, and more than a little embarrassed at getting so emotional in such company as this, and so, when Adrian returned with more drinks, he had already started up a conversation with one of the other Lords about serving on special interest committees.

            ‘So it’s a bit like working with a think tank, then — oh, thanks, Adrian.’ He accepted the drink and had been about to start sipping when he hazarded a glance at the contents. He stopped. Scrutinised the glass. The yellow liquid inside was so bright it looked almost radioactive. ‘Wait, what is this?’

            ‘It’s limoncino, don’t tell me you have never tried the stuff before? Popular drinking game material in universities, I hear. And a fine drink besides.’

            ‘Oh, I had my fair share of drinking games, don’t get me wrong. Just, never with this stuff.’ Pål sniffed it. ‘Smells sweet.’

            The man across from them — Lord Sophus — cast a wanton eye their way. ‘Limoncino, you say? Adrian, my good fellow, you wouldn’t happen to have any more?’

            Adrian gestured. ‘The bar’s right there.’

            Now alone in their secluded little corner, Adrian and Pål faced each other down, both of them looking like they wanted to start talking but neither taking the initiative. Pål got over the issue by taking a sip of his drink.

            ‘Wow. It’s good.’

            ‘Of course it is. Why, the first time I tried it, I was on a boat out somewhere in the Mediterranean…’ This led to a full recounting of the trip, which had taken Adrian to the sunny beaches of a town named Alassio, in Italy. A place where they drank piping hot black coffee even in the height of summer and where the shops all closed for the weekends, but never mind that, because there was always a friendly local offering wine and good conversation in the comfort of their own home.

            Spoken in Adrian’s smooth, deep voice, it was like listening to a travel audiobook, and move over Bill Bryson, because Pål, for one, was utterly sold. He wanted to see the sun sinking low, making the sea look golden. He wanted a clear, open sky that made the days long and warm, he wanted late night boat trips and champagne.

            They talked for a while about travelling, and Pål told him the places he’d been in return. Vineyards in Tenerife were the closest he had gotten to Adrian’s level of haute tourism.

            But then, a shift in the conversation came that changed everything. Pål was not even aware it was coming; he was far too busy getting exuberant over the idea of going on holiday someplace luxurious. All of a sudden, Adrian had moved in.

            ‘Tell me, Pål, do you like men?’

            _I do, but you’re too close,_ is what he wanted to say. The question was so sudden that for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Adrian studied him, face shifting into a frown like desert sand, and he drew back.

            ‘I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

            Ah, shit. Now he was the one looking bad.

            ‘No, no, you weren’t, it’s just…’

            ‘You already have someone?’

            _I like Nicholas,_ his mind helpfully supplied. _But we both know that isn’t gonna happen any time soon._

‘No,’ he replied, keeping a measured grip on his words. ‘I just … well, I mean, I have doubts about how appropriate this is. I mean. I’m covering stuff under your remit, and—’

            ‘I really wouldn’t worry about that.’ Adrian leaned back now, brushing his hair back and smiling again. His voice was so damn silken, and Pål really wanted to believe him.

            ‘It’s not that I don’t want to…’ Pål could have cursed for how small his voice sounded. But apparently, this had been the correct thing to say, because Adrian smiled, and began drumming his fingers ever so slowly on the table top. One, and two, and three, and four.

            ‘Well, how’s this for an arrangement. We do … whatever we damn well please behind closed doors, on the condition that you lose your journalistic right to interview me for any official purposes.’

 

Not an hour later, Pål found himself in the lobby of an expensive apartment. The taxi ride back had been a blur. Adrian was next to him, sorting his keys.

            Oh. This was Adrian’s house.

            Oh yeah. Adrian had asked him if he’d like to relocate to somewhere more appropriate.

            He had said yes.

            Through the alcohol haze, he allowed Adrian to lead him inside by the hand, and his heart was racing. This was real, right? Definitely real.

            He shrugged off his jacket and was given very little time before Adrian kissed him. Tongue snaking between his teeth, opening his mouth up for more, wet and hard and possessive, pressing in until Pål could hardly breathe.

            Pål reached forward, trying to draw Adrian closer, but the man broke off and walked abruptly into another room.

            ‘Come here, Pål.’

            Where was he…

            Oh. The bedroom.

            Pål entered cautiously, heart beating with anticipation. The heat gathering in his crotch was growing unbearable, and he walked up to Adrian, who stood assertively at the foot of the bed, eyes glinting in the low light.

            When he reached him, Adrian smiled, all benevolence and authority raining down upon him. He commanded the room in silence for precious few moments, the tension, making Pål’s skin prickle. And then, just as in the game, he said, ‘Kneel.’

            _Fuck._

            Pål did as he was told. The blood was throbbing in his veins too much for him to bear deliberating over it. And it was worth every second saved, because god, Adrian looked so pleased with him.

            He wanted to reach up, to touch Adrian’s legs, trace his thighs through his suit pants, but he got the feeling that would be frowned upon. So he waited for instruction.

            Adrian stroked the side of his face with reverence, drawing his thumb down from temple to jaw, then across to his mouth, where he slid his thumb in decadently. A smirk when he was met with no resistance. He pushed his thumb in harder, while the other hand moved up to muss Pål’s hair, to hold him fast, but ever-so-gently.

            ‘Be so kind as to undo my belt.’

            _Oh shit, this was really happening._

‘It wasn’t a question.’

            The thumb in his mouth swirled, drawing up saliva and making him gulp awkwardly. He was burning, every inch of his skin was burning. He fumbled for Adrian’s belt, hooking his finger in the loop and pulling it out, hoping he wouldn’t mess up.

            The more ground he uncovered, the less he worried about messing up. He just wanted to get to his prize. When he pulled Adrian’s pulsing cock free, he heard a soft sigh above him, and Adrian retracted his thumb from his mouth, streaking saliva across his cheek as he held his face between his hands.

            ‘What an angel you are,’ Adrian murmured. And with a low satisfied rumble, he eased his cock into Pål’s willing mouth. Pål near on melted with the deep sounds Adrian was making as he rocked himself back and forth, and it took all his effort not to raise his hands to grip those thighs in response. He let his eyelids flutter closed, and he gyrated his tongue around the head of Adrian’s cock, lapping and swirling and then using his lips to _suck._ Adrian sighed deeply yet again, and as Pål took command, eagerly combining his tongue movements with Adrian’s thrusting, he began to talk in that luxurious, silken voice. ‘Oh, you’re such a tease. Of all the men I could have met, it had to be you. So gorgeous. So _obedient_ , so eager to please. You pretty young thing.’

            Pål hummed in compliance as he sucked and licked away, tracing delicate circles round the glans, teasing away at the corona. This made Adrian seethe with frustration, with overstimulation, and eventually he gripped Pål’s head and forced himself in with urgency.

            ‘Take it in deeper, now. Does it hurt, boy?’ When Pål whimpered in response, near-on choking as he took his cock right to the back of his throat and then some, Adrian laughed low and guttural, and released ever so slightly. ‘You’ll do anything for my cock, won’t you?’ Pål murmured his agreement as best he could, and worked the shaft with his lips forming a perfect ‘o’, trying to keep stimulating with his tongue all the while.

            ‘Oh… right there. Don’t stop.’ Hands fisting in his hair. Thrusts increasing in fervency, hard enough now to draw tears from Pål’s eyes with the force of it. His length thickened, teetering on the edge of orgasm. Then, a final phrase spoken, worming its way inside Pål’s head. ‘You’re mine.’

            Hot liquid gushed into his mouth, down his throat, and it took all Pål’s control not to choke and spit. Adrian held his face right into his groin, impaled on his throbbing, leaking member, and Pål cried out, voice all muffled and strained. Eventually, he swallowed, and Adrian released his grip. Both of them, panting in the aftermath.

            It took a while, but eventually Adrian said, ‘You may get up now.’

            No sooner had Pål done so than he found himself held in Adrian’s grasp. He submitted willingly, letting himself be turned about so Adrian was holding him from behind. One hand ghosted over Pål’s crotch, and Pål twisted into him, bucking, pleading for more with a whimper.

            ‘You haven’t earned that yet.’ Soft breath against his ear. ‘But all in good time.’ And he released his grip, leaving Pål reeling.

            He was reeling so much he had to grip the bedpost to steady himself. Then he was aware of a warm dribble leaking from the corner of his mouth. He needed to clean up.

            ‘It’s that way.’ Adrian pointed toward a door against the far wall, and Pål headed toward it gratefully. Inside, he found a rather minimalistic bathroom — basic but the furnishings were clearly expensive nonetheless. One of those big sinks that saw the water cascade toward the plughole like a waterfall rather than a thin stream. He washed his face. Used a little mouthwash. Then returned to the bedroom.

            ‘Fuck, that was … that was hot.’ The alcohol haze was losing its grip over his faculties, and Pål was able to see everything with more clarity. Adrian, his shirt tails hanging loose, pants pulled up but belt buckle still undone, metal clasp wavering listlessly to the side. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his expression well-sated. Especially in a post-orgasmic state, he was so attractive. Already Pål missed the sensation of his firm hands on his face, burying him into his groin. He was still trembling in the aftermath, but god, he wanted to do it again. A lingering gaze toward Adrian’s bed.

            But Adrian noticed, and he tutted. ‘I’m afraid not. We can’t have you turning up for work wearing the same clothing as yesterday, or who knows what they might think? And you’ll hardly fit anything of mine.’

            Damn, he was right.

            Adrian brushed Pål’s hair into a more socially-acceptable form, murmuring, ‘Such a gorgeous colour,’ as he did so. Then he sorted his own belt buckle, stretched out, and led Pål to the door. ‘I’ll have a taxi waiting outside for you in five minutes.’

            ‘Really? Ah — you don’t need to…’

            ‘Hush. I can, and I will.’ Adrian was busy unfolding a grey patterned length of fabric from the coat rack as he spoke. It was some kind of scarf, but a lot wider than usual, and Pål might have mistaken it for a sofa throw if not for the fact that Adrian was intent on winding it round Pål’s neck, over his shoulders, securing it in a gentle fold at the front. At once, the heady smell of citrus and wood smoke overcame him, and he closed his eyes to absorb it all the more, to nestle into the fabric’s warmth.

            ‘Wouldn’t want you to catch cold,’ Adrian murmured.

            ‘Oh. Are you sure?’ He was going to continue, but the look in Adrian’s eyes stopped him. ‘O-okay. Thank you.’

            ‘You’re simply perfect, Pål, you know that?’ The words made him glow. Then Adrian reached for the door. ‘It’s been a real pleasure. I shall see you again soon.’

            ‘I hope so.’

            ‘Oh, and one final thing,’ Adrian said, holding loosely on to Pål’s upper arm before he could leave. ‘You’re not to touch yourself until next we meet. Am I understood?’

            ‘Y-yes, Sir.’

            ‘Very good. Now, on you go.’

 

The following morning was a slow one at the office. Nobody talked about the tragedy of Katherine Crowe, and Pål was grateful for that, because that still left him ill at ease, and he couldn’t stomach it right now. Sooner or later Cedric would update him, of course.

            In the meantime, Pål was indulging himself by looking up the Italian town of Alassio on Google Maps instead of revising his debate notes. He’d left the scarf Adrian had loaned him (or given him? It was all rather unclear) at home, but he was already craving its warmth. It was probably just as well he hadn’t brought it: for a start, he didn’t want anyone at the office to question an item that clearly was not his style, and more than that, the presence of the thing would have made it even harder for him to avoid the urge to just slip into the bathroom and beat one off, imagining Adrian talking to him, touching him… The lack of release was more frustrating than he ever could have imagined. But Adrian had told him — _instructed_ him — not to do that. He had to be good.

            And so, he took to distracting himself with everything else under the sun, which worked for a while, until an interruption brought everything back into sharp focus.

            ‘That Lord that came into the office last week. Did you realise he’s an Ambassador for the UN?’ Lana was tapping on his desk with her pen.

            Pål blinked.

‘He is?’

            ‘Yep. Even worked some on the Convention against Torture. Damn, if I’d known, I would have quizzed him about it.’

            He felt so incredibly foolish for not doing his research properly. He knew Adrian was important, but he’d had no idea he was _that_ important. And the blush that was working its way up his neck — no doubt visible by now above his collar — increased when he thought about the way Adrian had spoken to him. About what they had done together.

            Rising in tandem with that was a sense of discontent that began small, then blossomed out into a full-on frustration. Adrian had kept this fact from him, and considering the context, it seemed like an awfully big fact to neglect. Furthermore, why, if he was a UN ambassador, did he not talk at all during that debate? Seemed like he would have had the most insight, considering.

            ‘Yeah, that’s news to me,’ he replied, keeping his voice level.

            ‘When you next see him, maybe ask him about the acceptance rate of CAT appeals? It’d help my investigation a lot.’

            Pål was all ready to reply with an _I’ll see what I can do,_ when a sharp realisation hit him.

            He couldn’t ask Adrian anything of the sort.

            _Remember the ‘agreement’._

_You lose your journalistic right to interview me for any official purposes._

If he had only known, if Lana had only told him this ahead of time, he could have asked Adrian about his work _before_ they went back to his house and sealed the deal. Oh, how very clever of the man. Something didn’t add up, but none of it made any sense yet.

            ‘Sure,’ Pål replied weakly, and Lana smiled.

            ‘Thanks. Means a lot.’ And she went back to her desk.

            Pål sighed.

            Jesus Christ, what the hell was happening to his life? It was starting to seem as surreal as the damn plotlines from a World of Eos campaign.

            Speaking of World of Eos — because, damn, he needed more distractions right now — there were a number of things he needed to do that evening. Talk to Nicholas, for one. He felt bad for leaving it so long. For absconding last night without even telling his friends. Sure, it was just a game, but Prompto Argentum and Noctis Lucis Caelum had things to do. Dungeons to unlock. Trials to overcome. And, now that he had the key to Steyliff, he had to step up and do his part.

 


	4. I Met a Man Wounded in Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mistakes and revelations are made.

 

Pål was late to the game.

            A sudden cold snap had rendered most of the city’s public transport inoperable, and it had taken him hours to get home. Not that he had noticed all that much — he was off in his own head, daydreaming on the cramped rail replacement service home. Yes, a small part of his mind was eager to get home and log in, to tell Nicholas his news, but right now that discontent was still festering away in his brain, so he was distracting himself with his earphones and some loud electronica of the chillout variety. That, combined with watching the world go by all cocooned in the crowded bus, the heavy warmth of human bodies on all sides, was somehow peaceful.

            But the peace did not last. No sooner had Pål logged on to World of Eos than a message pinged in his chat log.

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Hey. where were u last night?

            Ah, shit.

            [Prompto Argentum] Sorry, man. Got sent to Parliament. Coverage for a thing. Y’know.

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Eh. Dunno how you can stand that. Must be a real bore.

            Pål thought about the previous night, and heat pooled in his groin. No way was he telling Nicholas what had happened.

            No way.

            He opened up his inventory, checked over his gear, filling his screen with distractions so he didn’t end up dwelling on Adrian and alcohol and unfamiliar bedrooms. By the looks of things, Noctis was already raiding in Daurell Caverns. Full party, so he couldn’t join.

            [Prompto Argentum] Party up in, like, half an hour?

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Sorry, man. Dunno when I’ll be done.

            He told him yeah, this was fine, not a problem, and he closed the chat window. It would ping when Noctis was ready. In the meantime, Prompto set to wandering about filling side-quests in the Leide region, sliding effortlessly into character to greet fellow players and NPCs alike.

            Luckily, there was enough to keep him busy around Hammerhead.

            ‘Hey, Cindy, how’s it going?’

            His favourite NPC was walking up to him now, responding with a friendly wave and a lean in that showed off her perfectly-rendered physique.

            ‘Hey there! Dino’s been lookin’ for ya. Says he’s got a favour to ask.’

            ‘Oh yeah? Where is he?’

            Cindy reached for his map, and marked out the man’s location. ‘Should be down near the pier there.’

            Galdin Quay. Huh, maybe he could get some shots of that mysterious island in. Whatever its name was. Shame the developers hadn’t really done much with it yet. Well, he would probably find out as the story progressed.

 

When Prompto arrived at Galdin Quay, the first familiar face he saw was not Dino, but Ardyn.

            Damn, the man had some stealth. He hadn’t even seen him log on. But there he was, standing a small way down the pier, examining what looked like a shipping chart. It was such an innocent contrast to the previous night, and it was enough to make him blush. The words, the damn words came back to him in vivid, unexpected whispers.

            _Deeper now. Does it hurt, boy?_

His throat itched with the memory. And that final phrase…

_You’re mine._

Oh, fuck. He was getting hard. This was … really inappropriate.

            Dino would probably be waiting at the far end of the pier, which meant he’d have to pass Ardyn to get there. And what does one say to the person they sucked off the night before?

            He couldn’t just walk past him and not say hi.

            Yep, nothing for it but to keep on going forward. It was incredibly weird, doing the virtual equivalent of the Walk of Shame up the wooden planks of the pier. There was no discernible reason why he ought to feel so guilty — it wasn’t as though what they’d done last night was wrong, and besides, real life didn’t matter when in the game.

            Still felt freaking weird, though.

            He walked slower than necessary, because he was busy multi-tasking and making sure his microphone was connected and the channel open, and he was rewarded in this effort when he reached the middle of the pier and Ardyn turned around, bright eyes upon him, and that addictive voice crept into his ears once more in a low, soft rumble.

            ‘Hello, Prompto.’

            It took all of Prompto’s effort not to respond in an embarrassingly high pitch. He managed to say hello somewhat normally, and he hung back a little, hands in his pockets, eyeing the bigger man with an anticipation that he hoped wasn’t coming off as nervousness.

            ‘I didn’t make you feel bad, did I?’ Ardyn said, studying him curiously.

            Oh no, just what he hoped wouldn’t happen.

            ‘No, you’re just … you keep surprising me, that’s all.’

            ‘Is that so?’

            He wasn’t sure whether that meant Ardyn was pleased or dissatisfied. He tried to lighten the mood.

            ‘So, what you down here for?’

            ‘Oh, I’m merely checking the schedule for the boats.’

            ‘Going on holiday?’

            Prompto really hoped he was going to mention the mysterious island, because if Ardyn was the sort of person who could uncover the key to Steyliff, he was probably capable of that, too — but he was in no such luck.

            ‘Nothing so fanciful, I’m afraid. I have some trade deals I need to make.’ He didn’t elaborate, so Prompto left it at that. For a moment, they stood together, idly watching the sun set over the bay, and that brought to mind the nuclear facility, and the last solemn moment they had shared in front of an ocean, wild wind in their hair. A discussion of names and personal histories that had made him feel far too scrupulously examined, and yet, not in a way he wholly disliked.

            He moved a little closer. Heard Ardyn’s low, gentle breath in his ear. Wished that this was reality, so that Ardyn could drape a protective arm over his shoulders once again.

            Then Ardyn shifted.

            ‘What brings you out here without your dear friends?’

            ‘Eh, I’m waiting for them to finish their raid. Wanna show ‘em the dungeon entrance tonight. Thanks, again, for that.’

            Ardyn bowed low at this.

            ‘And you rewarded me so kindly for my efforts.’

            A clear reference to the previous night, one that made him blush like crazy, and for once he was glad that technology was not advanced enough for real-world expressions to be automatically translated onto player models.

            ‘Come, if you are to meet them at the entrance, we should go together. I have been enjoying the natural beauty of the northern region rather a lot lately.’

            He accepted the offer graciously. Ardyn walked with him through the restaurant, and all thoughts of Dino and the awaiting side-quest were forgotten. As they passed through the main hall, Prompto was overcome by the urge to stop at one of those elegant tables and eat there. He could imagine the kind of meal Ardyn might order, and the kind of wine he might ask to be brought to the table. Ardyn would likely spend plenty of time savouring every moment, no matter how much he wanted to get him alone afterward, for the man seemed to have all the patience in the world.

            When Prompto realised he was imagining a classic date scenario, he could have cringed. After all, they had skipped that part entirely, hadn’t they, as far as real life went?

 

Even with fast travel to the Vesperpool camp site, a long journey still had to be made on foot to the dungeon entrance. Prompto didn’t ask Ardyn if he had a chocobo rental — the idea of the man mounting one of those birds, no matter how practical, was simply too ridiculous — and so they walked together through the damp undergrowth of the sunken swamp, Prompto keeping up with Ardyn’s long strides as best he could. The journey was spent mostly in silence, at first, because the things on Prompto’s mind were not things he felt he could say aloud. But, being the kind of man that he was, Ardyn sniffed out his hesitance a mile away.

            ‘Is there something you wish to say?’

            ‘Uh. It’s … really not important.’

            ‘There’s nobody around. If you wish to break character for this, I shan’t tell.’

            This made Prompto smile a little. It was still so very endearing that Ardyn took the roleplaying so seriously. But as for his question, well, there was nothing for it. He took a deep breath, trying not to let himself get so distracted that he fumbled the keyboard controls — it was easy to make one’s character trip over rocks and bushes in this region — and he went for it.

            ‘Okay. Why didn’t you mention the UN thing before?’

            ‘You’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid.’

            ‘A colleague of mine told me you’re an ambassador for the United Nations. That … might have been useful to know. Before…’

            _Before I went and agreed to that little arrangement of ours._

            ‘I didn’t think it an important factor, to be perfectly honest. Your principal area of remit did not involve me, after all.’

            It was an awful answer, but a clever one, because there wasn’t really much he could say in response to that. Disagreeing would mean having to justify himself, putting himself on an unnecessary defensive, and that would just make him look bad. Unprofessional. Childish.

            Time to lighten the mood a bit, yet again.

            ‘Okay, well. Uh. I have another question.’

            Ardyn kept walking. ‘Go right ahead.’

            ‘You said “until we next meet.”’ He didn’t bother elaborating; Ardyn would know exactly what he was talking about. ‘Does that mean … does that mean I’m off the hook right now?’

            Ardyn laughed; a resonant rumble that set the hairs on Prompto’s arms bristling.

            ‘My dear boy, that would be far too easy. Now, here I was thinking you liked challenges.’

            Damn, this was frustrating. He had one hand poised at the edge of his keyboard, ready to slip down below his belt should Ardyn give the word. He had been hoping Ardyn would _talk_ him through it, let him jerk off in real-time to the sound of his voice, because _fuck_ , right now he could not think of anything hotter than that.

            ‘Please…’

            Ardyn sighed at the sound of his begging — he evidently enjoyed it immensely — but he remained decided.

            ‘Until next we meet in real life. I trust you won’t let me down.’

            A ping interrupted the tension. Prompto opened his chat log, and saw two, no, three messages waiting. All of them from Noctis. He shot back some replies, told the gang to come meet him by Steyliff. Then he carried on walking through the muggy, verdant forest with Ardyn, matching the man stride for stride and enjoying every minute of it.

            They stopped by the archway at the entrance of the dungeon. Mist hung thick in the air, brisk and expectant, layering the trees with an otherworldly glow. Ardyn turned to face him, and it was wonderful how much the character models reflected their stature in real life, with Ardyn being so much taller, so much more domineering.

            ‘It was a pleasure to escort you here, my boy. Remember, I would do such a favour for you any time. And,’ — here he leant in close — ‘I would love to find out how you would see fit to repay me.’

            Prompto wanted to melt. He wanted to say _I’d do anything_ , and if asked, he would straight-up log out of the game and hop into a taxi, find Adrian right now and —

            A noise in the thicket behind them. The gang was approaching.

            ‘Hey, Prompto! Who’s your buddy?’ Gladiolus, brash as ever, calling to them across the swamp.

            Prompto glanced from their approaching figures to Ardyn, and hazarded an invitation.

            ‘Care to join us?’

            It was worth a try. But Ardyn tipped his hat, and stepped away.

            ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’ve never been one for group adventuring. I’ll leave that to you.’

            ‘Leaving already?’ Noctis called after the man’s fading figure. Ardyn merely raised a hand in a farewell wave and continued on without a backward glance. ‘Whatever.’ Noctis shrugged, and said no more on the subject, all attention now switched to the entrance of the dungeon. ‘So why’d you ask us to come here?’

            Prompto proceeded to tell them all that he had found a way into Steyliff Grove, and he could have sworn that Noctis had never been happier. It was more than just spamming every reaction emote available, it was the surprise in his voice over mic chat that let him know for sure.

            ‘So, was that Devon Elkton, then?’

            Prompto couldn’t help it. He laughed.

            ‘God, no.’

            ‘Friend of yours?’

            ‘Yeah. Name’s Ardyn.’

            ‘Huh. Never heard of ‘im. Looked kinda familiar, though.’

            Ignis propped his glasses further up his nose.

            ‘You’ve probably seen him around the Crown City. His fashion sense certainly looks like he’s frequented the more eccentric quarter. But enough of that. Let’s see if the information checks out.’

            ‘Right.’ Prompto nodded, and took centre stage.

            The sun dipped further behind the trees, and bit by bit, evening claimed the sunken valley. Prompto pulled a calcite prism from his inventory — a small curio he’d picked up from a shop in Lestallum on Ardyn’s advice. It was the sort of thing that nobody had thought to collect before, because it had been sold far down at the end of the town, next to that weird bread shop, and it had no redeeming features or stat-boosting qualities. Not to mention that one had to ask the seller five times to view their stock before it would even show up in the list.

            He held it up to the doors and the last dying rays of sunlight caught the crystal, refracting off and casting the strange rock inlay of the dungeon’s doors in an eerie light.

            As the rock began to glow, it occurred to Prompto that the name of the crystal’s real-world equivalent was Icelandic Spar, or silver-rock, or _sølvberg,_ just like his surname.

            Interesting coincidence.

            Didn’t help that he imagined it said in Ardyn’s voice. He still hadn’t completely calmed down below the belt. Neither the place, nor the time.

            It was an instant panacea to that heat-inducing thought when Noctis, Ignis and Gladiolus collectively said ‘Whoa’ in voices of childish glee. The glowing rock was parting, opening up to a stairwell that led far below ground.

            ‘We goin’ in?’ Noctis asked.

            ‘God damn right we are.’ Gladiolus clapped Prompto on the shoulder as he headed on it. ‘You did good, kid.’

            Getting to the end of the dungeon was an adventure and a half. They wiped an unholy number of times, but even Gladiolus managed to keep his cool. The promise of the prize that awaited them was, in the end, the only thing holding them together. And at the centre of a spectacular underground hall with a ceiling where water shimmered all held up by magic, they found the secret that Steyliff Grove held within. A small, unassuming silvery lump of material. Mythril. It was not what any of them had expected.

            Later, round the campfire, they celebrated their success with an EXP-boosting meal and a few songs played over their portable music player, because Noctis had spent his recent dungeon earnings on a new song pack and everyone was eager to hear.

            As for the mythril, there wasn’t much to examine. The few properties the item had were listed in inventory, and much like the calcite, there was probably some sequence it would activate if brought somewhere at the right place and time. But as for now, it remained an inert, yet incredibly pretty rock.

 

Pål didn’t see much of Adrian for a while after that. The man was clearly active online, because his character stats kept rising and rising, but their schedules never quite seemed to synch up. It wasn’t a big deal — real life came first, after all. But every night Pål would curl up at his desk, that elaborate patterned scarf draped over his shoulders as he ran dungeons with Nicholas and the others. He would listen to Nicholas’s daily troubles  — _‘Yeah, the gala went fine, but dad’s annoyed, though. Invited a bunch of relatives, and some of ‘em didn’t even show up.’  —_ whilst sparing nary a moment to talk about his own. He would theorise on the game forums about what the mythril could possibly be used for, while the thought of Adrian saying his surname, _sølvberg_ , the calcite stone so common yet so much more meaningful than the grandiose mythril, ran on loop at the back of his head. He would take comfort in the smell of citrus and woodsmoke, hoping all the while that Adrian might log in and greet him with a sultry word or two.

            A week passed. Pål’s investigative article was shelved for the second time after the court ruled suicide as Crowe’s official cause of death. Pål had the chance to write up a short news piece on it, just to announce the proceedings, thanks to the fact he was currently the person who had been working on that area the most, but his full, official exposé article on the nuclear power plant and its inner workings was delayed out of respect to Crowe’s immediate family. Cedric had told him it would be published at the start of the following month, to coincide with the UN amendment of the Non-Proliferation treaty.

            He took to wearing the scarf to work, where it got him compliments from the girls in the office — and a wry, knowing look from Lana, who had guessed it was a gift. But he refused to tell her any more when pressed on the issue.

            When Cedric dragged him in one morning for a meeting, it was to announce something very different from what he expected. Yet again, a whole new assignment was handed to him with no update on his current shelved article.

            ‘We need you to go to Vienna.’

            Vienna — why Vienna, now? Pål’s mind raced as he pieced together everything he knew. The United Nations headquarters, it just had to be.

            ‘This for the treaty amendment?’

            Cedric nodded.

            ‘Your contact in the House of Lords will be joining you.’

            ‘What, who? Adrian?’

            ‘Lord Adrian Lyndon, yes. Lana mentioned the other day how he was a UN ambassador, and I had the idea of contacting him to ask if you could be given access to the offices.’

            For a moment it seemed as though all the world was conspiring to place him in close proximity to this guy, and had Cedric stopped there, Pål would likely have started believing in things like serendipity. But, as it was, Cedric kept talking, and the truth outed itself.

            ‘Turned out we didn’t need to in the end,’ Cedric mused, turning his wizened face toward the magnificent view of the city skyline. ‘He called us first.’

 

Pål left the meeting room feeling like he’d just walked out of a movie theatre; the world far too open, the light of day too harsh.

            He was destined to go to Vienna, and he somehow had ended up with Adrian Lyndon, of all people, as his chaperone.

            Wasn’t Adrian breaking the terms of their little agreement by going so far out of his way to help him like this?

            Not necessarily. He had only lost the — how had Adrian said it? — the journalistic right to interview him for any official purposes. The agreement said nothing to the effect that Adrian could not help him however he saw fit, and for a fraction of a second, the power imbalance there struck him as a little unfair. He had allowed himself to be outmanoeuvred thanks to this stupid — kink, desire, whatever it was — and now he found himself helpless and out of control, yet somehow, inexplicably, still getting what he wanted.

            This was a curious position to be in.

            Awkward, sure. And yet, at the same time, the thought of jetting off to a foreign country with someone like Adrian was … well, it was utterly intoxicating. The memory of Adrian talking about that Italian town he had once travelled to was still so fresh in his mind, even after so many days. And the things he had said when last they had met in-game…

            _I would do such a favour for you any time. I would love to find out how you would see fit to repay me._

            Again came the flush below the belt. That itch he had been instructed not to scratch, and he was being so good about that, too. So many times he’d come close to breaking his promise, because there was no guarantee of when they’d be meeting in person again, but now… Now they had a timescale. A date.

            This was ridiculous.

            He had to focus on work.

 

‘I’m so jealous of you,’ Lana told him at lunch.

            ‘Cos of Vienna?’

            ‘Yeah. Dave’s jealous, too.’

            ‘That I am,’ the older man chipped in, taking a break from his ham and cheese sandwich to wave the crust pointedly at his face. ‘Damn, son, you got a real knack for making friends with the bigwigs. I have been running the parliamentary circuit years now and not once — not _once_ — have I ever got Lord Lyndon in my favour like that.’

            Pål considered brushing the compliment off by saying it was no big deal, they’d become friends over World of Eos, but mentioning an online game was only going to bring up more questions than answers. So he shrugged and tried to downplay it nonverbally instead.

            Lana was still on a roll.

            ‘You’re so lucky, though. I mean, just think of the archives! The people you’ll get to talk to!’

            Pål picked at his salad. ‘You’re gonna ask me to do your research for you, aren’t you?’

            ‘Heh, got that right.’

            ‘Well, why not? I’ll see what I can dig out for you while I’m there.’

            Lana beamed at him.

            It was actually a fantastic outcome, seeing as he couldn’t ask Adrian directly for information any longer. How kind of Adrian, to manoeuvre him into a situation where he could still get everything he wanted.

            Nearly everything, anyway. There was still one huge gap in the whole affair, one that had still not been satisfactorily explained, and it lay in his mind in the shape of the unfortunate Katherine Crowe. Her ghost would inevitably play on his mind at least once in the day, and right now it cropped up when he was on his way back from the canteen.

            Pål sat down at his desk, and for the first time since the news on Katherine’s suicide, it occurred to him to call up Marco Wesker, the facility’s down-to-earth receptionist.

            Turned out Marco was good for a chat, and he had a lot of things to say. Pål ended up transferring the call to his mobile so he could get a coffee and sit in an unused meeting room while they talked.

            ‘Still a right ruddy shame,’ Marco grumbled.

            ‘Yeah.’ Pål had already asked him the usual — was his job still secure, was he holding up okay, that sort of thing — but he was less interested in answering that and more interested in ranting about the injustice of it all. So all that was left, really, was commiseration, on Pål’s part.

            ‘It’s bad news all around,’ Marco continued. ‘You know EXINERIS lost a lot of stock since the accident, too. We had to cancel their research project.’

            ‘EXINERIS?’

            The name hit him like a slap to the face. That was Nicholas’s father’s company. Something about this felt suspect.

            ‘Yep, indeed. They had a nice little research project running. Wanted to move to nuclear. Ain’t no future in oil, y’know.’

            ‘Huh.’ Pål tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. But, internally, all he was thinking about was that gala Nicholas had been forced to attend. The new deal the company had apparently secured. Had it been something to do with this research project? And if so, just how fucked was the company? How fucked was Nicholas?

            While he was thinking, Marco saw fit to continue, and he really wasn’t ready for it, he really was not.

            ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you, that a relative of the Lyndon-Caplans would apply a bit less pressure, considering.’

            Pål twitched, and nearly dropped the phone.

            ‘You mean Adrian?’

            ‘Lord Adrian Lyndon,’ Marco said, and he pronounced it with a complete lack of ceremony, ‘yeah, that feller.’

            ‘He’s related?’

            ‘E’s Reggie Lyndon-Caplan’s brother, that he is.’

            ‘Holy shit.’ He had wondered about Adrian’s name, but he hadn’t seriously thought…

            No, it was just too improbable. He swore again. Added ‘That’s ridiculous.’

            ‘Aye.’ Marco sounded sage when he agreed, but he didn’t know the half of it. He really didn’t. Again, Nicholas’s ranting on the gala came to mind. _Invited a bunch of relatives, and some of ‘em didn’t even show up._ Could one of those people have been Adrian?

            ‘Wait, how’d you find that out?’ _And how come I didn’t?_ being the unspoken implication.

            ‘I ran a thorough background check on ‘im,’ Marco explained. ‘Run ‘em on all visitors. Can’t be too careful, that you can’t.’

            Of course. It made sense for the man who survived the protests and nuclear drama of the Sixties to employ an extra level of caution the rest of them seemed to lack.

            ‘So are you saying it was pressure that drove her to it?’

            ‘No! Not at all, my lad. She would never … Katherine would never … She just weren’t like that, okay?’

            What Marco was implying made no sense. It was completely ludicrous.

            For the first time since he had met him, Pål seriously started to consider that old Marco Wesker was a little touched in the head. Maybe it was a side effect of his long years of hard toil in the nuclear sector, and, in a way, it made sense. For such a trigger subject there was already so much misinformation and conspiracy, and it wasn’t hard to see how prolonged exposure could lead a fellow to getting outlandish ideas. Had to be a fault in Wesker’s thoughts, because the idea that Adrian was in any way responsible for Katherine’s death was the only thing more outlandish than the idea Wesker was paranoid.

            But one thing was for certain. Adrian’s oddly antagonistic behaviour towards Katherine made no sense in this new context.

            He let the unease fester away in his stomach while Marco talked on, and after another ten minutes, he thanked him for the conversation, and returned to work.

 

When Pål got home, he didn’t know who he wanted to talk to first. Nicholas, or Adrian?

            There had to be some misunderstanding. Adrian couldn’t have known about his brother’s investment. He couldn’t have known. Well, either that or he was somehow being protective of his brother. Could have just been ensuring the nuclear company was sound, and fit to carry out the research. He had been asking questions about the facility’s safety regulations, after all.

            Yeah — it would be better to square things away with Adrian first, before telling Nick anything. Try and get some more information out of the man, if that was even possible. Better than leading Nicholas into a panic over something that might not even be true.

            He took a deep breath, and put the kettle on. Could do with a hot drink at a time like this.

            And so, it didn’t take long for him to set up at his desk, mug of tea in hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he slung the grey scarf over his shoulders, and it frustrated him, just how much warmth and comfort he took in the act.

            Time to log on.

            He felt sick.

            While he mistyped his password, while he tried again, while he waited for the loading screen to resolve, he was still deliberating on who to approach first, on what to say.

            Fate took the decision out of his hands when he logged in to see Adrian was the only one online. Okay, then. He focussed. Checked his inventory. Equipped the outfit Adrian liked best, and got into character.

            Prompto Argentum, ready for duty.

 

The shallow water of Alstor Slough shimmered in the evening light, looking like liquid mercury. Ardyn was waiting at the water’s edge, a shadow as dark as the lake was silver. Like he was so often wont to do, he was just standing there, looking out in silent contemplation. He never seemed as though he had any pressing business, despite his clear proactivity on the network. It was more a status thing, as though he expected people to come to him.

            And powerless under his sway, Prompto did so.

            ‘Ardyn. Hey!’ He waved and ran up. Tried not to let on how anxious he was feeling.

            A kindly smile. Ardyn seemed pleased.

            ‘My, aren’t you eager.’

            Prompto felt a flush creep through to his bones as that gaze was levelled his way, as that silken voice worked its way into his ears. God, it had been a while. But he tried to keep control of the situation.

            ‘Yeah — I’d hazard a guess that you are, too. I talked to my boss.’

            He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Ardyn smiled, and leaned in.

            ‘Well, now. I am very much looking forward to it.’

            ‘Yeah. So am I.’

            From that point on, they seemed to give up separating real-world talk from the roleplay world, and that was fine. It would make it easier.

            He tried to frame what he wanted to say, how he wanted to start it, and took too long.

            ‘You have questions, once again.’

            Well, Ardyn was hardly wrong, there. What was annoying, though, was that the fact must be written so plainly into his every move. If only he wasn’t so easily readable.

            He cast his eye across the slough. Tall reeds and bulrushes, standing still in the complete lack of a breeze. Algae floating on the surface of the glassy water like scum on hot chocolate. Everything, tinted in hues of brown and muddy green. And somewhere, further out in the water, the beasts of the lake slumbered, giants waiting to be roused. If depression were a place, this would be it.

            ‘I always find you in the weirdest places, you know? Why is that?’

            ‘Not those sorts of questions.’ Ardyn’s soft chiding brought his attention back from the vista, back under golden eyes that held him fast like a spell.

            ‘I just. Okay.’ He breathed out. Gathered himself. ‘I just didn’t know you knew Nicholas, is all. Noctis, in-game, I mean. Noctis Luc—’

            ‘Oh, you don’t need to specify. I know exactly who he is in-game.’

            Prompto stared, and waited.

            ‘I can see you’re not going to be satisfied with the short answer,’ Ardyn murmured.

            He didn’t see the point in agreeing with this fact. It was obvious enough.

            ‘Well then,’ Ardyn said, and he stood there in silence for a while longer. Just when Prompto was getting frustrated, ready to ask another question, a distant whirring rose on the breeze. An Imperial dropship. There, the familiar blocky shape hunting over the mountains, growing closer with each passing second.

            God, how ominous it looked in the greying sky.

            ‘Ardyn… there’s Imperials above us… we might wanna move…’ He trailed off and pointed upward. They still had time; the dropships always moved so slowly. But it was curious how Ardyn seemed to spare not a single ounce of worry toward the approaching vessel.

            The reason for this became abundantly clear when the ship hovered to a stop above them and Ardyn cast his eyes upward, smiled, and said, ‘The old girl finally decided to show up. Better late than never, I suppose.’

            ‘Wait, that’s _yours?_ Did you steal it from the Niffs?’

            ‘Will you join me?’

            Ignoring his question completely. Okay, then.

            ‘Why do you have the ship?’

            ‘You mentioned, a while back, that you had trouble reaching Niflheim. Well, I found a way. And, what do you know, it has something to do with that mythril. Marvellous stuff, that.’

            ‘That’s what’s powering the ship?’

            The maw of the ship’s door opened outward, allowing Ardyn the space to step up onto the platform. ‘It’s in Niflheim that you will be able to more clearly see the answer to your question.’

            ‘Niflheim? I … what, we can go there? Now?’

            Ardyn sighed, as exasperated as a primary school teacher trying to educate a particularly stubborn child.

            ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ A sweep of the elaborate coat, a slight bow and a flourish. ‘Imperial Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, at your service.’

 

Prompto boarded the dropship anyway.

            Noctis still wasn’t online, and Ardyn’s little revelation had piqued his interest. And, if they really were headed to Niflheim, it was the best chance he had of getting the man entirely alone for enough time to find out everything he needed to.

            ‘You’re the Chancellor. How the hell’d you manage that?’

            ‘Oh, all in good time. One mustn’t rush these things.’

            Why was he brushing him off like that? He sounded so fake, his voice was plastered on like too many layers of makeup and it felt so jarring. This was the same person who had invited him into his house, into his bedroom. What had changed?

            He knew he had talked to Marco, didn’t he?

            Okay. So Ardyn was playing the long game. Manoeuvring Prompto into position like he was aligning a telescope with the stars. Slowly, carefully, with a guiding hand here and a subtle word there. Nothing for it but to play along. Be himself.

            ‘Must’ve been a lot of work. I mean, I’m really interested how you did it.’

            He was met with a soft laugh. ‘Oh, it really was a lot of work.’ And Ardyn said nothing more.

            Fine.

            Prompto leaned back against the dropship wall. He felt sick. And slightly, worryingly aroused. The air, so nail-bitingly expectant. That feeling of heading off into the unknown, it was something exciting but it came accompanied with this awful sense of having left something important behind. He was overcome by the urge to check his metaphorical backpack for a toothbrush, a passport; things so ordinary, necessary and far too easily misplaced. Such a disconcerting feeling, that.

            In the World of Eos, Prompto thought himself a lucky man, being the favourite of this powerful benefactor, and thus being privy to the Empire’s secrets — a feat that nobody in his guild ever achieved.

            In reality, Pål sat on the edge of his seat, warm scarf pressed close around his shoulders, cup of tea resting cold at his side while his mind raced at a million miles per hour, wondering just what Adrian’s angle was in all of this.

            He did not recoil from Ardyn’s presence the entire duration of the journey, not even when Ardyn moved up close to sit beside him. His skin shivered with a delicate frisson and how he wanted to edge further back, put himself in a vulnerable position against the wall, entice the man even closer. But he stopped himself — he didn’t want to do anything to heighten the already-present power discrepancy. Besides, he had to keep his cool.

            Five minutes into the journey, Prompto called up his map to find it had gone blank.

            ‘They’re still building the public maps for this section.’ Ardyn’s voice was full of amusement. ‘We really are at the frontiers of this world.’

            The ship landed another five minutes later with a gentle thump. And when the hatch drew open, to reveal a muddy grey city that looked like the darker, more industrial counterpart to the Crown City of Insomnia, Prompto felt his jaw drop. So this, this land of grim, functional office blocks and brown brick chimney stacks, this landscape that somehow appeared busy and desolate at the same time, this was Niflheim. In the distance, snow-capped mountains bordered the plain the city seemed built upon, which gave Prompto the impression they had travelled far to the north.

            The dropship had landed on a platform in the centre of the city, and it was only when Prompto accepted Ardyn’s hand and hopped off the ship that he saw it. A huge tower leading upward to a curious diamond-shaped structure, hovering gigantic in the sky.

            He had heard whispers of this place. At outposts in Lucis, and on the discussion forums. He sucked in breath, and hazarded a guess.

            ‘So, this is Zegnautus Keep, then?’

            ‘Ah, yes, the height of Imperial technology. I do love its grandeur. Come along, let me show you. The interior is far more illuminating.’

            Ardyn led him to the gates, and up they went along the elevator shaft. It turned out to be a lie, that bit about the interior, because it was dark as hell in there, and all rusted and grimy as if it had not been cleaned in years.

            Maybe the devs were still working on the textures in here.

            They passed Magitek Troopers, guards and officials along the way, all NPCs, all seemingly requiring certain trigger phrases and codes before they would allow Ardyn further access. But at each gateway, Ardyn knew all the moves. He really had been busy.

            Somewhere near the top of the Keep, they drew to a stop in what looked to be a control room. Three doors led out of there, and one wall was lined with screens. Ardyn immediately veered towards one of the screens and pressed some buttons. Behind a wall somewhere, the sound of something activating.

            ‘Is this your office or something?’

            ‘In a manner of speaking. But before we continue…’ Ardyn indicated towards the door on the right. Nondescript, and rusted, just like everything else in here. ‘I want you to do something for me first.’

            ‘Uh, sure. What is it?’ He was wary, no denying it. But no way was he missing out on a chance to find out more. Not when he had come this far.

            ‘All you need do is follow me through here, and tell me what you think of this little project I’ve been working on.’

            ‘That’s all?’

            ‘That is all.’

            He hesitated. Readjusted his headset. For some reason, he felt uneasy, and it was probably just the buildup. And, of course, Ardyn noticed.

            ‘I trust you aren’t having any second thoughts?’

            Prompto shook his head. Little late for something like that, anyways.

            ‘Come on, then. Let me enlighten you.’

            Prompto swallowed nervously, and followed Ardyn into the room.

 

The loading screen to this new area took forever, and when the scene resolved, Prompto realised something was very wrong. The first thing he saw was metal. An arrangement of rods and cambers. His character, at the centre of it all, and he was — wait, what?

            His stomach overturned.

            The contraption at the centre of the room was in the shape of a Y-frame, and he was spread out on it, tied to the frame by tight metal bands around his wrists and midriff, his feet suspended inches from the ground. He looked grotesque. He looked fucking crucified.

            It made his skin prickle, and in another context, it might have been unbearably hot. But not like this. Here he was, spread wide open quite against his will in the most perverse way possible…

            Well, maybe not the most perverse way possible. He could think of worse.

            Fuck.

            Ardyn stood just off to the side; he became aware of this the instant the man chuckled in that low, seductive register of his.

            ‘Now _this_ is more the sort of dungeon I prefer.’

            God, how that made him squirm.

            ‘What the hell is this?’

            ‘It’s a servicing rig. For Magitek Troopers. I thought it would be rather fitting, considering—’

            There was no possible reason why this would be fitting, none that he could think of, anyway. He cut Ardyn off all too abruptly, trying not to let his voice shake.

            ‘No, no, I mean the room, the… This whole…’

            ‘A small modification of my own design. What, you don’t like it?’

            Prompto tried to open his inventory, but to no avail. He tried to click every key on his keyboard, but nothing was working. He was stuck. It was like Ardyn had found a glitch in the game. Wait — a modification, he said.

            ‘This is your mod? What, like, you coded this?’

            ‘As you say. Finally, something in this game to provide me with sufficient challenge.’

            Prompto hissed between his teeth. ‘Let me down.’

            He was met with a soft tutting as Ardyn moved closer.

            ‘I think not.’

            ‘Is this because of real-life shit? Because I figured out you were related to Nicholas? What the hell happened to the agreement?’

            ‘Don’t shout, Prompto, it’s rude. Our arrangement … that still stands, exactly as before.’

            Prompto struggled again, but still, nothing was giving. He couldn’t gain an inch of movement in his bonds, and if the satisfied humming from his mic were anything to go by, Adrian was definitely enjoying himself.

            ‘For fuck’s _sake_ , Adrian!’

            ‘That’s Ardyn Lucis Caelum to you.’ _Lucis Caelum…_ Fuck, so he was calling himself after Noctis’s name now? If that wasn’t a bold statement enough, Ardyn followed it up with a small laugh, the same sort of laugh one used when one knew, without question, that the hand they had been dealt was the winning one.

            ‘I want to stop the roleplay now.’

            ‘Not going to happen, my dear boy.’

            ‘C’mon. This isn’t funny.’

            He tried to move once again, but all that happened was a pathetic stilted jolt of his limbs. It seemed Ardyn had recycled the animation used when the player character was paralysed in battle.

            ‘Let me out! Look, I really, _really_ don’t like this.’

            ‘Why, what are you so afraid of? What do you think I’m going to do to you, here?’ The tone was too saccharine, and it disturbed him now, how much Ardyn’s figure seemed chimeric, transformed into something reprehensible beneath the sweet, soft words.

            ‘I don’t know, I mean, look around. You put me in some weird freaking bondage device, you sadistic fuck.’ It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

            Ardyn slapped him, hard, and for a second he thought he had lost connection. But then the scene resolved.

            ‘Your words hurt me, you know.’

            Prompto froze. Something in Ardyn’s tone was dangerous now, and sent a cold spike of dread shooting up his spine. Ardyn had stopped the pointless bitchslapping and, after a distracted murmur of ‘Mm, I had better update that texturing now,’ he traced a finger along Prompto’s cheek, then moved closer, yet again, his face now inches from Prompto’s. His hair caught the cell’s low yellow light and looked like blood.

            ‘You’re not entirely wrong, however,’ Ardyn said, and his words came out thick as tar, so strong and deep that Prompto could practically feel it coating his senses. His smile was ravenous, and his eyes glinted with intent — all these descriptive turns of phrase coming through in the roleplay chat log, just as he had taught Adrian to do.

            And so, Ardyn took advantage of his so-easily-captured prey. He gazed at that blond angelic hair, the innocent eyes beneath so full of fear. He trailed a hand up Prompto’s vest, fingers running luxuriously over his soft skin —

 

Pål logged off. Closed down the application window and pulled his Ethernet cable out for good measure. The computer sat there, with its small notification window blinking. _No internet connection detected._ Good.

            His ears were buzzing with the absence of sound and after a moment he wrenched the headphones off his head, letting them fall to the floor in a clatter of wires and plastic.

            The words, the damn words Adrian had written in the chat log, they were churning about in his brain. _Innocent eyes. Soft skin._ That, and the small cell in the dungeon flashed before his eyes, hiding just beneath his eyelids. The smell of woodsmoke grew too strong, and he tugged the damn scarf off his shoulders to join the headphones where they lay on the floor.

            He let his eyes fall open, closed, open, a number of times, before realising it wasn’t going to stop the invasive imagery.

            What the fuck had just happened? How had it happened? How had he let it?

            Much as he wanted to know why, he didn’t want to think about it. He felt sick, wrong, like he’d had one beer too many and was now faced with the prospect of finding his way home drunk from a strange, unfamiliar location.

            Pål never took baths. But somehow, right now, it seemed like the right thing to do. He needed to feel clean. Get his mind off the game.

            Once he lay ensconced in scalding hot water, the sick feeling in his stomach began to lessen. The frustration stayed close to the surface, though. He huffed, then sank beneath the water, enjoying the brief moment of weightlessness. Repeated the process.

            It was close to midnight when he got out of the bath. His stomach was grumbling away through lack of food, but he wasn’t even remotely interested in eating.

            He figured Adrian had probably logged off by now. Maybe he would risk it. Go online. Respawn. See Nicholas. Do something utterly _other_ from what had just transpired.

 

It was common procedure when the game encountered problems that it would spit your character out at the last place rested.

            Prompto was not so lucky. The login screen faded, but he was not at the last inn he had visited. He was in the same dungeon as before — that cell in the middle of that Imperial fortress. Zegnautus Keep.

            His controls still weren’t working. Teleport: locked. Targeting: deactivated. All movement: disabled. He could bring up the menu screen to log out but other than that, he couldn’t do jack shit. Still couldn’t even type in the chat window.

            _Crap._

The camera angle, at least, could be turned around. He could zoom in and out, get a decent view of the room. It was utterly empty, apart from him and the device that restrained him. As far as he could tell, Ardyn had left.

            Being able to see a full three-sixty degrees around him was, in a way, worse than having the camera restricted. He could swirl it round and round and it wouldn’t do a thing to change how stuck he was. And worse — since the game didn’t allow for first-person point of view, he was relegated to looking at his avatar strung up on the machine at the dead centre of the screen.

_This can’t be happening._

It was far from the worst thing, because seconds later, a direct message popped up in the chat window.

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] You online, man? Where r u?

            His finger were all prepped to type a response, and then he remembered.

            _I can’t reply. Shit, I can’t fucking reply!_

Alone in the dim, grimy cell, Prompto Argentum started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-----
> 
> one more chapter after this. We'll see how Adrian plays this.


	5. Where Black is the Colour, Where None is the Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time, we left Prompto in a very precarious position. Now, Ardyn's plans become ever more clear.
> 
> Chapter 5 of Prompto/Ardyn political AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIED, GUYS, THERE'S GONNA BE ONE MORE CHAPTER AFTER THIS

 

 

A pinging noise brought Pål out of his nightmare. Pushing the headphones off his ears, he froze, before realising it was his own phone. He delved into his pocket, pulled the device out.

            <Hey, man. U ok? u weren’t replying online>

            Nicholas. Shit.

            Pål didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have the headspace to deal with this right now — and besides, how on earth could he even begin to explain what was happening? _Hey, Nicholas, your uncle’s now playing your favourite MMO and has me trapped in some weird dungeon._ Yeah, that wasn’t fucked-up at all.

            His fingers shook as he typed his reply.

            <Game’s glitching out on me. Sorry, dude.>

            <damn that sucks. s’alright if we go ahead with Galahd raid?>

            God, had Nicholas waited so many hours for him already?

            <Yeah, sure>

            It was amazing how calm his replies looked on the screen. They were worlds apart from how he felt.

            The screeching sound of a metal door opening cut through from the headphones hanging limp around his neck. He hastily pushed them back over his head, and turned his attention back to the game. Something was happening in the Keep.

 

When Prompto loaded into the scene, Ardyn had already entered the room, and was busy circling around his spread-eagled avatar, taking all the time in the world.

            ‘And how are you enjoying my hospitality?’

            It seemed the purr in Ardyn’s voice still had the power to make him flush.

            ‘Fuck you.’

            Ardyn frowned, and it was the kind of frown that indicated he was more disappointed in Prompto’s behaviour than upset in any way.

            ‘Prompto, Prompto … you’re better than that. Please. Be a good lad and show some decorum.’

            ‘Or what? Look, Adrian, just tell me what this is all about!’ He still had no inclination to use the damn pretentious character name, and why give him the pleasure, when this was so far beyond a roleplay now. He glanced at the OOC linkshell, half-expecting him to reply there. Or perhaps he was expecting another spoken reprimand.

            But Ardyn wasn’t listening.

            ‘Noctis Lucis Caelum. The light in the darkness, the light of heaven. Ah, it’s all so over the top, isn’t it? I suppose that penchant for extravagance runs in the family.’

            ‘So this is about Nicholas. Should’ve known. What do you want from him?’

            ‘I want … oh, it’s probably better if you don’t worry yourself over it.’

            Prompto attempted to move again, and, as expected, it merely resulted in that stilted character animation, but at least it brought Ardyn’s attention to his restraints again.

            ‘Kind of hard not to worry when I’m…’ He let the sentence trail, and Ardyn took to roving his eyes over his handiwork, admiring the restraints, hands reaching to explore the contact points where metal met flesh, and _fuck_ , how hard Prompto was trying to ignore those all-too-decorative sentences in the RP chat log.

            ‘I ought to explain about the Magitek rig, seeing as you didn’t let me finish earlier.’

            Prompto raised an eyebrow, waited.

            ‘I have taken a few liberties with your storyline, you see…’ He stroked along Prompto’s exposed forearm, and it was at this point that Prompto noticed the textures had been updated. Ignore the textures that looked like fresh bruising on his skin — and yeah, that in itself was kind of sick — because there was now something that looked like thin black lines stamped across his wrist. A tattoo?

            ‘Wh-what is this?’

            ‘You may want to check your character biography on EosNet.’

 

So Pål did as he was told, pulling out of the game window and opening up his web browser. On the first try, he accidentally opened his own Facebook page, which took ages to load, and in the rapid clicking that ensued he managed to close the browser entirely. He started up again.

            ‘It’s no fun to be kept waiting, you know.’

            That damn teasing, saccharine voice. Pål didn’t want to remove the headset, though. He couldn’t risk missing anything important.

            ‘Stop, just — stop for a second, okay?’

            Adrian gave a sort of sniff — of agreement? Obeisance? Either way, Pål didn’t like the humorous tone he could detect beneath it. But, at least Adrian didn’t whisper in his ear after that.

            He navigated to the EosNet pages, heart thudding all the way. Adrian even telling him to look on here at all was such a worrying thing, because the character biography pages were only meant to be changed by games masters — even the player themselves had limited control over what showed there. It was one of the unique properties of the game, something designed to really bring home the game’s principal tenet of ‘ _your actions, and not your words, are what define you’_.

            Of course, right now, neither seemed to apply to Pål, and he could say this with confidence because he had reached his own bio. And what he saw was incredibly upsetting.

            _Prompto Argentum: Player character 01987._

_Born: Niflheim._

_Designation: Magitek Infantry prototype test-subject. Rescued 1yr after birth by as-of-yet unidentified Lucian operative. Joined a clan alongside the Prince of Lucis (possible motivations may include spying on Lucis for the Empire under latent conditioning, or seeking to overthrow his former owners)._

And then on to his usual stats about class, weaponry, job skills and raiding resume.

            There was no way this could happen. Even if a games master had changed this information, they could only do so with the consent of the player. This made no sense — other than Adrian must have tampered with it somehow. Had he hacked in to the character database? Must have.

            Pål’s eyes travelled back to three key words. _Niflheim_. _Magitek. Test-subject._

            ‘Fuck.’

            The word was out before he could hold back, and he heard a soft, satisfied sigh from Adrian.

            ‘Change it back. Change it _back!_ ’

            Adrian wasn’t interested in replying, and instead crooned down the mic.

            ‘Come back to me, Prompto, dearest — we’re not done here yet.’

            Pål knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere by logging off now. So he steeled himself, then left the browser window and opened up the game screen once again.

 

Ardyn stalked his prey, running his mouth while he eyed Prompto hungrily.

            ‘And so the curtain falls. Your character’s origin is as a babe in this very facility — a tool of the Empire, a means to get close to the Lucian kingdom. It’s an excellent character development, if I do say so myself. You ought to be quite proud.’

            Prompto now looked closer at his skin, at the tattoo there by the wrist, and his eyes drifted up, to the bruises and the cuts that weren’t there before. Something warm blossomed in his chest — a kind of nausea. And, as he turned the camera to get a better angle on his own face, now decorated with what looked like a welt across the nose, and burn marks on the temples, that nausea turned into a quiet, unforgiving rage. It would have been useful if he had known what to do with it. But, as it stood, he just stayed there, transfixed by the sight of his own battered body. It was lewd, it was grotesque, and the more he looked at it, the worse it seemed to get.

_How long had it taken Adrian to prepare these textures?_

            ‘Adrian … _Ardyn,_ please, just tell me what this is all about.’ He held on to the hope that his pleas would work, and, while the use of Adrian’s character name earned him a small noise of content, the man didn’t budge. He tried again. ‘Come on…’ His voice was wavering and he hated himself for it.

            Now Ardyn faced him directly, amber eyes boring into his, and he felt the full, terrifying weight of the man’s attention.

            ‘Rest assured, none of this is about you. Or even about Noctis, undeserving heir to the crown that he is. I hope you can take some comfort in that, and I can only pray that this won’t ruin our friendship.’

            ‘You … are you serious?’ The cheek of it; the very idea they could still be friends after this… whatever this was.

            Ardyn smirked, and stepped back from Prompto with a flourish, putting himself a few metres away.

            ‘And now, what I came here for.’

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            ‘Wait, what?’

            No reply but for a jaunty humming. And, again, flashing up in the corner of his screen:

            [Ardyn Izunia takes a photo]

            ‘You’re sick.’

            ‘Well, I need to leave him a little trail to follow, don’t I?’

            Prompto didn’t know what to say to that, so he struggled again, tried to find some way to break the lock on his controls.

            Ardyn laughed.

            ‘You look like you’re enjoying yourself. You know, I thought you’d be a lot more amenable to this whole scenario.’

            He came in close again. ‘We could still have some fun, you know. While we have the opportunity, while you’re all caught up in your … new position.’

            Prompto shifted away as best he could.

            ‘No.’

            ‘No? Well, that’s a pity.’ Ardyn traced a finger lightly across his cheek, then turned for the door. ‘I do hope your dear Noctis comes to rescue you soon.’

 

Once Adrian had gone, leaving only the soft thump of the mic as he quit the voice channel, Pål slowly dragged the headset off.

            His head was a whirl. His stomach, spitting acid. His sense of reality, ever so shaken. It was too tempting to start wildly slamming on the keyboard in an attempt to break the control lock, so he simply closed down the game client and stared off into space for a while.

            It was almost one in the morning. All that time listening to Adrian waffle on and he had not learned a thing. All he had gleaned was the insinuation that yes, this was some kind of revenge on Nicholas’s family, but this puzzle piece only had the corners filled in, and he felt like such a failure for not finding out more.

            What possible reason could Adrian want to sabotage EXINERIS? And how the hell was messing about with an online game going to affect any of that?

            Fuck, he should sleep. He should sleep, and maybe things would make more sense when he had rested.

 

Morning seemed far too bright. Overexposed, the light coming in from the half-closed curtains, overexposed like the images hiding right behind his eyelids. For a second it felt like the Alstor Slough, pale and washed-out beneath the sun. A blur before his eyes, haloes around the light, then a sudden, sharp focus on the condensation gathering on the window. Then back to the blur.

            Pål’s head was spinning. He had been off somewhere dark and unsavoury in his dreams, and on waking he couldn’t quite tell any more what was the dream and what was real.

            While he was figuring it out, his phone buzzed.

            <The hell is going on, Pål???>

            From Nicholas. He stared at the letters on his phone’s lock screen, then fumbled when he tried to swipe. He was still halfway off in a dream, and couldn’t coordinate his fingers for what seemed the longest time. Then, finally, he was in, and replying as fast as he could, spelling mistakes be damned.

            <hey waht’s up>

            <You know what’s up. why didnt you tell me adrian was in the game?>

            This was followed closely by another message.

            <Fuck>

            Then nothing more from Nicholas.

            _Oh, no, no, no…._

The photos. That was the only way Nicholas could know at this point. Had Adrian sent them to him?

            Pål stayed staring at his phone’s screen, legs hooked over the edge of the bed, one arm propping him up on the mattress until it began to ache. Then he placed the phone back on the bedside table and forced himself fully upright.

            By the time he got to the kitchen and had himself a hot cup of tea, he’d formulated a response. It was meagre, and kind of shitty, but he had no idea what else to say.

            <I’m sorry..>

            This got no reply.

            He couldn’t stomach any food, so he took his mug of tea back to the bedroom. Tentatively, he turned on his computer. Stayed the hell away from World of Eos — because if he was still locked in that dungeon he knew he’d be sick — and logged on to EosNet instead. He went back to his profile, stared again at the sabotaged information. There had to be access logs to the character database — perhaps if he fired off a support email he could get that information on his profile changed back.

            Pål had just sent the email when a private message popped up in his inbox.

            [Gladiolus Amicitia] Dude, why the hell are you front page news?

            [Prompto Argentum: reply to Gladiolus Amicitia] What d’you mean?

            [Gladiolus Amicitia: reply to Prompto Argentum] Check the forums

            Again, the prickling across his skin. He navigated over to the forums, and entered the EU server channel. General Chat was on _fire_. He clicked in, scrolled up the chat log.

            There were pictures … no, god, no, there were pictures of his character all tied up in the Keep. His stomach pitched.

            [Prompto Argentum: reply to Gladiolus Amicitia] How the hell did these get out?

            [Gladiolus Amicitia: reply to Prompto Argentum] I dunno, dude, but Noctis is pretty upset. What were u doing?

            Pål’s hands fell to his lap. Another message popped up in his inbox, the ping sounding loud and tinny in his small bedroom. The sender was somebody he recognised from one of the group chats.

            [Loqi Tummelt] Forget the ERP but like, how’d you get early access to Niflheim? The devs are announcing a release later this week but like, how’d ya get in so good with that new Chancellor guy? And like, how’d ya get to be FROM Niflheim? Spill the beans, man!

            Wait, _ERP?_ He knew the acronym — it stood for _erotic roleplay._ Is that what people thought this was? And … early access to Niflheim? God. It wasn’t early access, it was a damn hack.

            He didn’t reply to the message. He didn’t know how the hell Adrian had spun this thing, but he hated the feeling of being seen as somehow _complicit_ in all of it.

            Then came another message, and another, all from different players, and he didn’t brave going in to read them. _God damn it, Adrian, why would you do this?_

            A troubling thought — what if this wasn’t the only place he’d shared the photos?

            He checked his Twitter — not his work one, the personal one he had for geek things. More notifications on there. More photos. And then, his GamerNetwork account. His FansOfEos account. His Twitch stream.

            No fucking way. The pictures were on every forum, every social media outlet with a community devoted to the game.

            And with that came another cold wave of dread.

_What if they figure out who I am in real life?_

            He could see the headlines. _Times reporter involved in bondage roleplay scandal._

            Because, and he had to be fair, now, who outside the MMO community was going to understand that roleplay _wasn’t_ a sex thing? Especially when confronted with the sight of a … contraption … like that. He hated Adrian for designing the place so purposefully to look the way it did, for framing those shots the way he had. And if people within the game already thought it was ERP, what hope did he have?

            Oh, fuck — his life could be over.

           

A half hour later he got a reply from Nicholas, just three words — _no i’m sorry —_ and nothing more.

            By this time, Pål was standing half-dressed by his bedroom window and typing out a pathetically-worded sickness email to his boss from his phone. Because he was in mid-type, he very nearly called Nicholas by accident when the text came through. He gasped, dropped the phone, caught it halfway to the ground and huffed at himself.

            Why would Nicholas say _he_ was sorry? This was all his own fault. Of course, the option of blaming Nicholas was a tempting one, now that he had been made aware of it. He had never wanted to be a main character, he had merely been content to follow Nicholas around while his best friend lived out his hero fantasy. It had been wonderful. It had been such a good idea at the start.

            It never should have been like this.

            And so, he returned to blaming himself, which suited him better, because he kept thinking of Adrian and the pub and that low, attractive voice and _fuck,_ was he really so easily swayed?

            He sent off the email, then returned to looking out the window. His view was nothing special; just rooftops and red brick and scaffolding. But the sky had that pale, greying quality to it that matched that of the morning he had gone down to the South coast, the morning he had first met Adrian. Chilly, and expectant.

            His work would have to wait one more day. He couldn’t focus like this. And so, he finished the email — _Coming down with a cold, staying at home today, sorry —_ and sent it to work.

            He collapsed back into bed and had barely gotten the covers over his head when his phone buzzed again. Incoming call. Cedric. Fuck.

            ‘Pål, we need you in the office. Pick up some Lemsip and get here, stat.’ It was not the sort of voice he wanted to argue with.

 

The office was abuzz with conversation by the time Pål got there. Again, it felt far colder than the previous day, and he wondered just how much of this was psychosomatic, a product of the weird night he had had.

            Cedric found him in the central corridor and wheeled him round by the arm, started walking with him.

            ‘Pål! There you are. Thanks for coming in.’

            ‘What’s happened?’

            ‘Oh, almost everyone’s been pulled in on this Syria detail. Things really went FUBAR overnight.’ Cedric sighed, lines on his face creasing with concern. ‘But I need you today. There’s a lot of loose ends need tying up.’ Pål flushed, unable to escape the poor word choice. Of course, Cedric had no idea, why would he? Pål covered his awkwardness by nodding.

            ‘Sure, whatever you need.’

            ‘Brilliant. I’ve got a bunch of small pieces for you, but in addition… Can you do something on the Lord Roth story?’

            ‘The what?’

            A mild wave of confusion crossed Cedric’s face, then he realised Pål couldn’t have heard yet. ‘Oh, he stepped down as Chancellor this morning. Since you’ve met the fellow —’

            ‘Oh, I haven’t really _met_ him, it was just down the pub that one time—’

            ‘— I’d like you to cover it. We’ve only got a short amount of time before you’re jetting off, after all.’

            And then he remembered. He was meant to be going to Vienna. _With Adrian._

            For a moment, Pål stood in the corridor, numb. Then he gathered his senses and caught his breath, nodded at Cedric. ‘Uh, yeah, that’s … soon, isn’t it? I’ll, uh … I’ll just …’

            Cedric eyed him. ‘You don’t look quite all right, kid. Maybe you should’ve stayed at home.’ He sighed, then gave Pål a sheepish smile. It was clear he was immensely grateful. ‘Well, nothing for it. Loose ends. Tying up. Off you go, kid.’

 

Into his office, now, and it looked more like a stock market trading floor, all filled with activity and papers and that low rumble of chittering conversation, the odd shout, the carefully-dodged cup of coffee as people dashed from end to end. By the time Pål had reached his desk, he had gathered that the Russians were involved, and had done something potentially irreversible.

            Lana looked stressed. No surprise — she did a lot of coverage on the Syrian crisis. Her workload had probably doubled in the last twenty-four hours, and she was likely as not staying late tonight. Pål sank down at his own desk, determined to stay out of her way.

            For a small moment, Pål wished he had gone into op-ed or local news, or even sports, boring as all of those things would be. Those departments probably were having a much easier time of it right now. And besides, there was the invasive imagery of the past night flashing through his mind, putting him to shame. Investigative journalism? Who did he think he was fooling, when he could be played so easily?

            Hours later, while working on the Roth story, Pål crossed over his notes from the power plant. Katherine Crowe’s name cropped up again, and it made him think — _there’s still something unsavoury about that whole incident._ Something that he hoped didn’t involve Adrian.

            Lord Stephen Roth, it seemed, had resigned from his post as Chancellor after a scandal involving tax subsidies for a Canadian industrial manufacturer. Leaked emails had shown preferential treatment for the overseas company, which had caused a fuss in the Treasury. He — oh, that was why Crowe came up. The SLOWPOKE reactor. It was one of the exports listed on the manufacturer’s logs.

            Roth wasn’t answering the phone; his secretary had an automated message set up, and it was likely to remain like that for a while. Both the articles already in circulation from the Guardian and the Independent featured no quotes beyond the sparse press release the House of Lords had forwarded everyone early that morning.

            Eventually, Pål struck paydirt. He managed to get through to an associate of Lord Roth’s private holdings company, who only elaborated a little on what he already knew, but at least this way, he had better sound bites than the other papers.

            Pål did not remember Adrian’s words from Parliament until much later, while he was wolfing down a cup of tepid coffee in the staff kitchen. _Of course, I’m not the High Chancellor, but all in good time, I suppose._

 

On the tube home, Pål rehearsed in his head what he was going to say to Nicholas. He was assuming Adrian had told Nicholas about them, about what they had done behind closed doors, and the only problem — no, wait, that was a lie, one of his _many_ problems now — was how to explain himself.

            When he got back to his flat, an email was waiting for him: this time from the Eos support desk. _This change was made at 23:00 last night by mod 0r4c73 with consent from player 01987._ It was followed with a request log that, for all intents and purposes, seemed to check out. And, seeing the evidence of Adrian’s tampering so brazen in front of him made him even angrier. Everything checked out so flawlessly, even down to the IP address that matched his own. 23:00. Right when he was imprisoned in the Keep.

            Speaking of — was his character still stuck there? It had been long enough, surely. He booted up the game, tapping his fingers on his knees during the loading screen, tapping faster and faster until finally he was able to enter the server.

            He blinked.

            Prompto Argentum was standing outside the Hunter’s Lodge in Meldacio, the last place he had rested. It was raining, as it always was in this part of Eos. He span his camera round, moved forward and backward, jumped. Breathed a sigh of utter relief. It worked. Thank god.

            There was a small gaggle of player characters just off to the side, watching him with curiosity. Doubtless they had seen the photos.

            Open Chat: [Vyv Dorden] GG Argentum!

            Yeah. They had definitely seen the photos.

            Pål scrabbled for the shrug emote, then left the scene as quick as he could, heading for the forest to do some mindless grinding far away from other people. That should give him some space to check up on Nicholas, too.

            When he reached a more secluded spot, he opened his social toolbar. Nicholas’s icon was greyed out, which meant he was either offline or appearing as offline. Well, Pål hadn’t been blocked, so that was a good sign, at least. He opened up the clan chat.

            [Prompto Argentum] Is Nicholas online?

            [Ignis Scientia] No, said he was too tired to come on tonight.

            [Prompto Argentum] Oh. Right.

            [Prompto Argentum] Well, I really need to talk to him.

            [Ignis Scientia] Ah, he mentioned you might say that.

            Pål’s stomach twisted in knots. He said no more, and thankfully neither did Ignis, although the man must have heard by now, surely. He tried not to imagine Ignis, the prim and proper scholar, looking at those photos, and failed spectacularly.

            High time for a distraction.

            Pål didn’t turn off his computer, but he switched off the screen, hoping that would be enough to calm himself. He tidied his desk and tidied the coffee table and even ended up wiping down the kitchen worktop. He watched a re-run of some comedy cop show, turning it off when it reached the dramatic reveal partway through. He heated up frozen pizza and didn’t bother doing the dishes. Returned to the sofa feeling so goddamn useless.

            In moments like this, without anything better to do, his normal way to fill the time would be to beat one off in the bedroom, to whatever porn he could find at short notice. Would have been nice to have some release, especially since Adrian had instructed him not to, and god, how on edge he was after going so long without touching himself even once. It probably wasn’t helping his stress any.

            But he really wasn’t in the mood.

            Instead, a darker thought tickled the back of his mind. Something that might get the frustration out, and as with all dubious and hazardous things, this thought presented itself like an old, comforting friend. He didn’t feel the need to be wary of it, and so he went to the bedroom, listless as though he were ready to drop into bed, but instead, he sat on the edge of it and picked up Adrian’s ornate patterned scarf.

            It felt so smooth and silken beneath his hands. What was it, pashmina? Pål snorted aloud in the stillness of his room, and twisted the material between his hands. Expensive bastard.

            He threaded the scarf around his neck and affixed it at the front, images flickering through his mind of when Adrian had kindly, lovingly done the very same before bidding him farewell. Then, slowly, he tightened it. The material clasped his neck in a strict hug, and he tightened all the more. Just to feel. Just to get to the edge of that frustration, to let it out like the fizz from a shaken-up bottle.

_This piece of fabric is the closest thing I have to Adrian right now and he’s fucking killing me. Maybe I’ll let him go all the way._

            He held tight his grip until his lungs were burning, then released. The rush of oxygen was dizzying. Tremendous, at first, but then the lull it left made Pål feel hollow. If he was any more in control of himself, he would probably be horrified.

            As Pål straightened out the scarf, stroking it as if seeking comfort from the thing, the phrase _auto-erotic asphyxiation_ came to mind. Was that what this was? Not quite, although he should really have tried stroking himself hard, because he felt gross about the fact that he was, essentially, still obeying Adrian by _not_ doing so, but even still, he didn’t even feel remotely turned-on right then. Just masochistic.

            Again, the prickling. Again, the anger.

            Maybe he did deserve it.

            He knew it was bad, but he did it once more. He did it once more and he tried to jerk off but he just couldn’t manage it and he fell into bed cursing and failed and unable to face himself.

 

Time seemed to flow so slowly after that. Work kept him busy during the day, and paranoia kept him awake at night. Cedric sent through his flight confirmation and there was a small meeting about scheduling in his absence. He picked up a few more resources on the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, and tried to use that to avoid going online. Of course, that was easier said than done.

            Given a few days of discourse and speculation, the community had entered a state of slow implosion regarding the incident. People were discussing it like crazy, because it was all so horribly, perfectly timed with the news that the Niflheim maps were finally being released. Now, that was a detail he had missed, with all the work he had been doing recently, but it seemed the games masters had tallied up everyone who had found the mythril since Pål’s clan first did it, and had determined that was enough people to go ahead with the launch. Mod 0r4c73 turned up again in some of the dev updates, and Pål had his suspicions about 0r4c73’s identity, but nothing he could prove.

            And the chat rooms, oh god, the chatrooms. The things they were saying. He had to look. He had to _know_.

_ >>What is it with people and making reskins of their characters all beat up? Kinda sick._

_ >>Like if they want to get tortured that badly, they should take it offline._

_ >>Wait, how do we know he wasn’t … y’know? _

_ >>ew, you guys shouldn’t assume it’s something gross like that. He probably wanted it. You know what this community’s like._

_ >>I think this guy just wants to make a big deal of his storyline. He’s already close to the Prince._

_ >>Yeah, now I bet it’s like: Anything to get into niflheim early. you know his clan were also the first to raid steyliff? whose dick is he sucking lol_

_ >>‘This guy’ like cmon people wake up the player IRL is probably a girl you know the type _

_ >> Just wants to be the centre of attention._

Pål stared at the words on the screen, willing them to disappear. He could have just left, but they’d still be there, and maybe it was worse to not know what they were saying.

_He probably wanted it. He probably —_

_No._ Pål slammed down on the table top a little too hard as he got up, and raced to the bathroom to dry-heave in the sink.

 

In the bathroom, forehead resting on the tap, Pål stared at the ceramic discoloration around the plughole.

            Everyone was talking. _Everyone._ He tried not to think about what he would be writing on the forums if it had been someone else. He may well have been just as judgemental.

            Fuck.

            Everything was ruined.

            It would have been nice to have someone else taking control. To have at least one less thing to worry about. Pål thought about the breathing again, and he returned to the bedroom, wound the scarf around his neck, but this time he didn’t tug. He just allowed his fingers to trace the silken fabric, running an anxious rhythm into it, before he fished for his phone and began to type.

            <Nicholas, I really need to talk to you.>

            A while later, a reply came.

            <ok>

            This surprised him. He hadn’t honestly been expecting anything to come of it. But now that he’d gotten his reply, he gathered his nerves, and called.

            The voice on the other end, when he finally picked up, was undeniably Nicholas, although he sounded so small, so without his usual spark.

            ‘Hey Pål.’

            ‘Hey.’

            _God,_ this sounded so awkward.

            ‘So, um … Adrian …’ Nicholas sounded so _hurt_ , and man, this really wasn’t going how he had planned. Before he knew it, Pål was spilling out everything in a rush.

 _‘_ I met him through work and he was interested in the game and yeah, okay, I was interested in him, and I didn’t know who he was at first, I swear—’

            ‘Dude, dude!’

            Pål stopped, and Nicholas picked up where he left off.

            ‘I’m not mad at you. Well, okay, _okay_ , maybe a little. You could’ve told me sooner. Even though I … I guess I get it that you didn’t know who he was.’ A sigh down the speaker. ‘I thought it was a bit odd how you found the key to Steyliff so easily.’

            ‘So he told you that too, huh?’

            ‘He told me everything,’ Nicholas said, and Pål’s cheeks reddened. Good thing this was a phone conversation. Nicholas went on. ‘And you know what the stupid thing is? When I saw him at the Slough … I really did think he was familiar, you know. I just didn’t place it. Didn’t think about it ’til the other day. And then he showed me the photos. At first he didn’t explain and I … I thought it was some weird prank you were pulling.’

            It was at this point that the rage returned. That feeling of helplessness, all coiled inside, roiling at the thought that Adrian would try to pretend that he had been in on it. He felt like spilling his guts to Nicholas; he felt like sharing the burden of the most sickening things he had read online those past few days. And so, he did, frantically running on sentences like a fish flapping out of water.

            ‘Nicholas… Half of them think I’m a girl. Most of ‘em think I was doing ERP and should be banned for it because erotic roleplay shouldn’t be allowed on the servers. Too many people think I _wanted_ it to happen. Or that it wasn’t that big a deal. Or that I’m just attention-seeking and wanted to be part of the Niflheim release and that I leaked the photos myself.’ He was talking too fast, but it felt better to get those words out, over and done with. Well, not better, but a relief.

            Now for the most important thing.     

            ‘I didn’t want it. I need you to understand that.’

            ‘Dude, believe me. I do.’

            A silence fell between them, a silence in which the sounds of breathing seemed too stark and too painful.

            ‘So I need to tell you why he did it.’ Nicholas’s voice had fallen now, sad and lonely, and it stilled Pål’s upset heart. ‘I feel like I owe you that much. But it’s … it’s kind of why I haven’t been online the past few days. Sorry ‘bout that. But he wanted me to, uh…’

            A pause followed, in which Nicholas inhaled a deep breath.

            ‘He wanted me to tell him who Dad’s shareholders were.’

            Pål remembered Marco, talking about how the nuclear plant incident had lowered EXINERIS’ stock. And slowly, the bigger picture began to take form in his head. This was all some convoluted way for Adrian to get back at Nicholas’s dad for some injustice that still hadn’t been made clear. After all, hadn’t Adrian already said this wasn’t about him, nor even about Nicholas. They were just a … how had he put it? A means to an end.

            ‘You didn’t, did you? God, please tell me you didn’t.’

            ‘I’ve read all the things they were saying about you online. I mean, I know. It’s really bad. It’s not fair that you have to suffer for it. He said it was only gonna get worse if I didn’t. Like, you’ve worked so hard to get the job you’re in, I couldn’t ruin that. So I … I told him what he wanted.’

            God, Nicholas was so defeated, and, well, that made two of them. Pål cursed softly, not knowing what else to say, and Nicholas continued, speaking now in defence of his decision.

            ‘And they’re gonna change it back, rewrite your bio. We, uh, we can’t get rid of the images now, exactly — it’s spread too far — but he’s gonna remove the modded area at least. And no more information’s gonna get out. He promised.’ Nicholas breathed deeply. ‘But yeah. That’s why your character’s free now.’

 

When Pål got off the phone, he sank to the ground. He was only a stone’s throw from the sofa but he had no energy to take the necessary steps over. The floor was fine. He barely felt the carpet on his knees. Palms of his hands met the ground beside his knees and he doubled over, facing the floor as if he was Narcissus, staring at his own reflection in some ethereal pond.

            _Your fault, all your fault._

He could have avoided this if he’d just … if he’d just kept it in his goddamn pants.

            But what more was there to do now, but swallow his damaged pride and try to prepare for his upcoming trip? God, how he wished his first time visiting somewhere as important as the UN did not have to involve someone like Adrian. Sure, he still wanted to go, but at the same time, he was dreading it. Not just for how awkward it would be, but for how much hatred he could feel simmering below the surface. He had no idea what he would do upon seeing Adrian face-to-face again. Hit him? Shout? Make a scene? Or just quietly accept it all like a good little pawn? Any route he went down would be unsatisfying as hell.

            Pål sighed, and let himself slump until his back met the floor and his arms splayed out either side of him, head falling to the right, cheek on dusty carpet fabric, eyes staring at the phone hanging from his hand. He sighed, then a moment later a wave of disgust rolled over him and he shifted his arms slightly. Didn’t want to be reminded of the Magitek rig.

            He wanted there to be _something_ he could do. Even just a small thing to take back some agency, some sliver of control.

            Again, he scanned the email from Cedric, the one with his flight details. And then, while he was lying there, back to the floor and eyes to the middle distance, the notion arose. Once he had thought it, he couldn’t push it aside, this little thing that was so tantalising in its pettiness.

_I’m going to do it. I’m going to miss the flight._

 


	6. The People are Many, Their Hands all are Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The treaty summit takes place. Ardyn's machinations are seemingly endless, but how long will Prompto be able to keep his mouth shut?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a move that surprises literally no-one, there will be ONE MORE CHAPTER after this. Because we need a climax. A showdown. Had I done it all in this chapter, it would have been far too long to qualify as a single chapter.

 

Pål missed the first flight. He had planned to get the train back to London after doing so but he lost his nerve by the time he hit the platform. Drawn back to the gate, partly out of shame and that rising sense of stupidity — because this really was a childish move — he booked himself on the very next flight available, told himself he’d claim the money back on expenses later, and let the rest simply fall into place. He spent the flight drinking too much complementary coffee and trying hard not to let his anxiety get the better of him.

            Vienna International Airport was pretty much what he expected: busy and filled with wiener hotdog stands and surly-faced airport attendants who scolded him for using the automatic passport gates incorrectly. He made his way through to the Arrivals lounge and out to the pick-up point. There should be a taxi bay somewhere.

            The air was even less fresh here than it was in London. Some rising muggy quality was layered thick in the air, raising the humidity while the early spring sun beat down. Only a few small clouds hung in the sky, and it would have reminded Pål of the Vesperpool in World of Eos, if not for the grand buildings and tarmac and wide pavements all around him.

            He scanned the array of vehicles queued up before him, eyes travelling the length of the concourse, searching, searching.

            And there he was. Unbelievably, unmistakably Adrian, waiting by his car with that self-assured, languid pose. His magnetic gaze locked on Pål, and Pål couldn’t help but slip into it, drawn to him like the lesser of two binary stars to the greater, locked in a decaying orbit.

            Pål couldn’t believe what he was doing here. Had he waited for him the whole four hours?

            He came closer all the same, much as he didn’t want to, heart thudding all the way. And, in a strange sense, it felt like coming home. The almost comforting feeling stuck to his skin like summer heat, and when Adrian smiled down upon him, such benevolence, it almost made the weight of what had transpired that past week melt away.

            Applying such warmth after the sting - wasn’t there a word for that? And why did it make him feel like this?

            He should not have had so much coffee on the plane. He felt like being sick.

            As his jaw tightened, as he tried to summon the anger he knew Adrian deserved, the man beat him to the punch by saying,

            ‘Your boss called to let me know you’d be late.’

            Pål stared at him. He had no idea if this was true or not, although it sounded like the sort of thing Cedric would do. But he hardly cared, because there was no apology, no regret, not even a simple ‘How are you?’ He tensed and un-tensed the muscles around his shoulders. At this point, if he opened his mouth to reply, he was undoubtedly going to trip over his own words. The cold delivery of ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ — there was no point in saying that now.

            Adrian smiled again in the silence that followed, so perfectly in control of the situation and so utterly aware of it, and he clapped Pål warmly on the shoulder, just as he would an old friend. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to the hotel.’

            Pål could have made a scene. It would have looked quite dramatic, too, had he reacted on the touch, given that this was a much older man picking up a much younger man of clearly no blood relation in a rusty old car. People would have wondered. But he had to spend the next few days in Adrian’s company, and, overwhelming as the urge to be petty was, the last thing he wanted was for the man to sabotage his assignment. He had such power to do so, and this fact was frustrating.

            Instead, Pål made himself a bargain. If Adrian tried anything with him against his will, then that would be the point at which he’d cause a fuss. Against his will, now that was really the operative phrase, because one more look at that strong jawline and warm brown hair falling to broad shoulders in waves and he honestly wasn’t convinced that he _didn’t_ want it.

            God, everything about this was bad.

            ‘Is the hotel far?’

            ‘It’s about a half hour, and public transport is a pain.’

            Pål nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ And, while Adrian strode around to the driver’s side, Pål slung his single carry-on bag into the back of the ridiculous lowrider. Then he opened the passenger door and climbed in.

            The car smelled exactly how he imagined an old Mustang would smell. Diesel and dust, and the slightest hint of liquorice toffee.

            ‘This is your car. What — you drove all the way here from the UK?’

            ‘Of course. I much prefer the scenic route.’ Adrian smiled again at him as he buckled up, and the lines on his face creased in a way that seemed so genuine that he almost forgot himself, he almost smiled back.

            The car pulled off, top down, open road, and for a moment it almost felt like road trip. Pål had once travelled with Nicholas up to Fife, in Scotland, for a comic convention, and that sense of freedom when faced with the horizon, the expanse of space, had been glorious. Nicholas driving, wind in his hair, child of a fortune of liquid gold turned wild and carefree in the absence of family.

            There was some of that wildness in Adrian too, and maybe that was why Pål was so drawn to him. Maybe that explained the strength of the nostalgia hitting him in waves. And, just being aware of that made him recoil, made him want to bring up all the differences between Adrian and Nicholas.

            _Don’t start an argument in the car._

            Once they had cleared the airport toll, Adrian leaned over and — for a heart-stopping second, Pål thought he was going to touch his face — turned on the car audio. The mechanical click that followed drew his eyes towards it. A tape player, god, that was cute. Adrian really was from a different age.

            ‘I haven’t seen one of those in ages,’ Pål quipped. Actually, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen one outside of a TV show.

            Adrian grinned, all kindness and warmth.

            ‘Well, let this be your education.’

            A hefty series of clicks and thumps as he ejected the tape cassette, flipped it over and pushed it back in. Then came the comfortable analogue _whump_ of static as the magnetic strip began to play. A guitar riff in heavy overdrive strung itself out over the crackling.

            The voice that soon joined it had a theatrical, almost trilling quality. Iron Maiden? No, but something from that era. Somehow this was exactly the sort of thing he imagined Adrian would listen to. Dated, over-the-top, but powerful just the same.

            And then the chorus hit.

            _‘I’m the man on the silver mountain.’_

Pål squirmed in his seat.

_‘Someone’s screaming my name — come and make me holy again.’_

There was no way Adrian had not deliberately put this on. As if Pål could forget the moment Adrian had shown him how to get into Steyliff, the moment he had handed him the calcite stone — _Silver rock, just like your surname —_ and in that context, remembering the night with the drinks and everything that followed, this song seemed far too crude. The lyrics made him flush, and, below the belt, his cock stirred into life just the tiniest bit.

            _Really not the time, traitor._

            Pål shifted again.

            Asking to change the track would have only reaffirmed the power imbalance, but there was no point in saying anything anyway — his voice would have been lost against both the music and the roar of the wind. At least Adrian looked like he was enjoying himself.

            Had it been Nicholas, the soundtrack would have been Kasabian and Franz Ferdinand, and that was fitting for a younger, more indie version of Adrian.

            God, why did they have to be related? Again, the stirring, and Pål chided himself internally. He had to stop thinking like this. Just enjoy the ride.

 

They got through that entire song, and another few tracks by a different band that featured heavy abuse of a Moog synthesizer by the time they arrived at their destination. It was a relief to finally step out of the car, and face down the hotel that seemed impossibly tall against the cloudless sky.

            Adrian retrieved his own bag from the boot — which was really nothing more than a briefcase on wheels — and made for the entrance.

            ‘Are you staying here too?’

            ‘Of course.’ Adrian seemed to savour the look on Pål’s face. He patted down his shirt and stretched. ‘Well, I shall leave you to it, then. I shall likely see you tomorrow for the proceedings. Don’t worry about your access card — I shall ensure you receive it in the morning.’

            Pål nodded. ‘Right. See you.’ It felt like such a meagre response the instant he said it, but what else could he say? Adrian had already disarmed him by backing off like this. _Say something, you should say something about it. The game. It’s the perfect opportunity, he’ll be gone to his own room in a second, you won’t have to deal with being around him, you can just split._

Dare he?

_Just make it clear, for god’s sake, that it wasn’t cool._

He deliberated too long, and missed his chance.

 

Dinner that night was an awkward procedure. Pål agonised for many minutes too long over whether he should go to the hotel’s restaurant or not, because he didn’t want to risk running into Adrian. There was no small talk to be had between them, after all.

            It was just as likely as not that Adrian was set to go somewhere a little more upmarket than a hotel restaurant — wasn’t that his style? Or did he not care about such things when it came to travelling for business? Pål honestly didn’t know. In the end, he ordered room service, and to say he enjoyed the tepid chips and chilli con carne he’d been brought would be a grand overstatement.

            There was free wi-fi in the hotel but he didn’t access it. What good would that do but give him more opportunity to muse on his mistakes? He had no desire to see the state of his inbox. No desire to think about Ardyn Lucis Caelum and Prompto Argentum and all the awful things in between. And so, he idly watched bad hotel television until he grew tired enough to sleep.

 

The proceedings of the NPT Amendment began bright and early the next morning, and Pål was glad he had not succumbed to the charms of the minibar in his hotel room.

            The buildings, all of a curious concave construction, like pieces of paper being flexed inward, towered above him as if gathering him into the fold. All around the central courtyard stood a panoply of flags, all the countries of the world announcing their presence in bold primaries. Had he been a tourist, it would have been a grand sight to take in. But not today, not for him. As it was, it just felt oppressive.

            He was given his press pass on entry — for once, in such an international stage, his name was pronounced correctly by the receptionist — and he was directed to the Assembly Hall. He took his place just off to the side of the centre stage, next to the few other members of the press that had been invited, a cup of vending-machine coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other. The woman next to him, German lass, introduced herself as a reporter for Der Spiegel, but other than that, nobody talked much as the hall filled up. Pål recognised the guy a few spots away from him, a reporter from the Independent, sporting a camera that Pål was instantly jealous of, and looking far too focussed for small talk.

            Pål spotted Adrian mere seconds before the chairman took the mic, and as before in the House of Lords, Adrian sat far to the back, that wry smile on his face the whole time. He barely participated in the dialogue but for the odd guiding hand here and there, nudging the debate the way he had nudged Pål onto the Imperial dropship in the game, slowly, slowly, like catching a butterfly in the hand. That first time, in London, Pål had been confused by his quietness, his near-on gentleness, his shunning of the limelight. Now, Pål looked at him and saw only a dangerous man.

            First came the expected discussion on disarmament and problem states. North Korea. The ongoing trouble between the US and Iran after that deal was broken. Pakistan’s illicit underground testing. Methods on how to detect such tests needed more stringency, international bodies responsible for inspections needed more authority.

            And then, the subject matter much closer to home, the third pillar of the treaty; the right to peacefully use nuclear technology. The debate rocked back and forth, some countries being more for nuclear research than others, and Pål found it hard to know who was more correct — there were clear advantages for research, after all, particularly where it came to renewable energy and cancer research. But it wasn’t his job anyway, to have a viewpoint. He was here to report.

            There was a shift, however, and it came towards the end of the four-hour session. As the Canadian ambassador started talking again, highlighting the importance for equal opportunities of benefits between nuclear weapon states and non-nuclear states, as that small seed of interest began to blossom in the room, Adrian spoke up for once, and said something to the General Secretary, something so fast Pål nearly missed it.

            ‘If Mr. Jacquard would recall the Canadian statement made after the PrepCom meeting two years ago, he might wish to elaborate on his bias.’

            The General Secretary nodded, mouth open, ready to invite the Canadian ambassador to take the floor again, but at the same time, the ambassador rose. Eyes glaring hard at Adrian. Voice like tempered steel.

            ‘The current restrictions to the sharing of resources from peaceful nuclear operations are skewed and offer unfair advantages to more privileged nations.’ The more he spoke, the more the French accent came out. ‘Yes, we are a non-nuclear state that enjoys a number of benefits due to our international standing, I won’t deny that. I presume this is the bias you are talking about?’

            Pål remembered. _Outsourcing to the Canadians, are we?_ Seemed the country dealt a lot in production of tools and services for nuclear research, despite being a non-nuclear state. Adrian was keen not to let this slide, because the next honeyed words to spill out were ‘Oh, I understand your nation makes rather a lot of income from such things.’

            ‘I’m proposing we heighten security measures where trade is involved.’

            ‘Forgive me, but, the most steadfast way to heighten security measures is to cease trade entirely. The end products of peaceful research conducted in nuclear states, such as the aforementioned cancer treatments, may, and should be encouraged to be traded, of course.’

            ‘That is a power imbalance that we cannot support.’

            Adrian sighed. ‘Not to mention, including extra security measures means twice the bureaucracy, twice the paperwork, twice the inspections need be undertaken. It’s a lot of unnecessary work for something that only weakens international safety.’

            It was too late for the ambassador to make a rebuttal. His position as financially-compromised in this situation was sealed for the assembly. He had been out-manoeuvred.

            The remainder of the session was a slow but steady victory march towards Adrian’s desired goal. The treaty amendments: accepted. International trade: stymied. Another brick in the wall torn down, another thing that would only make it harder for Reggie Lyndon-Caplan’s company to ever seriously be able to invest in nuclear energy. Because that’s what this was about, ultimately, wasn’t it? And, as the officials filed out of the room at the end of the meeting, Pål could only feel gut-punched by the lengths Adrian would travel for something so petty.

           

Complementary lunch was nothing to speak of, outside of turkey sandwiches and a reminder from the chairman that there would be a function at the hotel later that evening, and soon Pål found himself with an afternoon to fill and a building to explore. ‘Building’ didn’t quite cover it. The place was a damn campus; so many different divisions, so many offices and meeting rooms and courtyards. The architecture made it feel a little like a warren in how overwhelming it was, and that was a feeling he usually only got in hospitals.

            He kept coming back to Lana, and Syria, and the story of the sadistic General. The sick fuck, as she had called him. She had managed to catch Pål for a brief moment before he had left, and he could still picture her face, strained and flushed from long hours of overtime, as she related the deeper details of the case. He should use the time he had to help her out.

            So he found his way to the library, and he flipped through shelf after shelf of intimidating folders until he found the files on the Convention Against Torture. There were numerous hefty binders of rules and regulations, and multiple extra folders concerning case studies, from both incidents that had led up to the first implementation of the treaty in 1968, and from subsequent treaty violations.

            It was here that he pored over the archives, unfolding case study after case study, and each one made his stomach churn with more acid than the last. The things people do to each other, the ways they string them up for personal gain, or — sometimes, just for pleasure.

            But, according to the Convention Against Torture, if there wasn’t anything to be gained, then it wasn’t really torture. And, in a flash, like stark shadows on pale pavement, he saw the faceless avatars of all those people arguing on the EosNet forums about what did and what did not constitute torture. For them, it had all been based off how convincing the images looked, not what it had actually done to Pål.

It was so fucking stupid. Why couldn’t he get it out of his head? Why react so strongly to it? It was just his avatar (never mind the effect the incident had had on him and Nicholas, no). Couldn’t he be a bit more grown-up and just ignore it, pretend it wasn’t such a big deal?

            Fuck, he felt so weak.

            He realised the case study description he had stopped on while thinking all this was from an incident in Vietnam in ’67, where a prisoner had been kept in a stress position for an extended period of time. The boy had not been hit or struck, he had not been burned or whipped or anything so visceral. It was just the position, arms strapped to wooden boards, body bent forward to make breathing just that little bit too difficult. Until, finally, his captors had earned his cooperation.

            There was one user on the forums who had actually been arguing that that very thing was a kindness, because it did not involve hitting. Pål’s throat grew dry, and his swallowing was far too noisy in the empty, dusty room.

            He read on.

_‘For the purpose of this Convention, the term "torture" means any act by which severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental, is intentionally inflicted on a person for such purposes as obtaining from him, or a third person, information or a confession, punishing him for an act he or a third person has committed or is suspected of having committed, or intimidating or coercing him or a third person.’_

            _Whether physical or mental…_ Maybe Lana could get some use out of that paragraph — especially since half the victims in her case had been affected enough by their treatment to grow suicidal.

            On to the next section.

_‘[…] when such pain or suffering is inflicted by or at the instigation of or with the consent or acquiescence of a public official or other person acting in an official capacity.’_

The sentences were dense and difficult to parse. But what stood out to him was the necessity of having a public official involved. If such a person wasn’t involved somehow in the act, it seemed to simply fall under abuse and not torture for international law purposes.

            His insides began to burn.

            Adrian was most definitely a public official.

            Adrian had compromised Pål’s character to get information out of a third party.

            And yes, he had only simulated physical torture in the game, but had it been real… Oh fuck, had it been real, how would it weigh up?

            Was it any less real because the fallout was only mental for him? Because he was loath to admit he was suffering?

            Fuck’s sake, it was hardly _real_ suffering, anyway, not like these people had to go through.

            Again, the images of the dungeon flashed into his head, only now they were merging with Lana’s awful case study, creating a nightmarish mess, and something snapped inside Pål. The bruises, the welts, the restraints, the fucking awful realisation that he was only being used as a tool, and the knowledge that, for far too many people the world over, that was happening in real-time, physically, right now. It was happening and some sick fucks out there were actually trying to _justify_ it.

            Before he knew it, he was crying. His tears were silent, falling down his face like they were disconnected from him, like the first signs of rain approaching.

            He closed the folder before he messed up the pages.

            How could he say anything to _anyone_ about what Adrian had done? Looking at all these case studies here, it seemed the most blatant, horrendous cases, the ones that even the most patriotic and stalwart of souls would have trouble arguing against, had a real bureaucratic gauntlet to run to even get noticed, and that was depressing. No wonder Lana was having trouble covering her story.

            For god’s sake, he had to stop feeling sorry for himself. He had to call Lana, let her know what he’d found.

            Was he even allowed to use his phone in here?

            Well, better to play the dumb foreign visitor than ask and be denied. He nestled further into his corner, and called her.

            ‘Lana, that guy you were talking about, the General…’

            ‘Yeah?’

            ‘Yeah, so, the main offices for the CAT are actually in Geneva, but they still have a bunch of resources in the library here.’ He was having trouble keeping his voice from wavering, and he hoped she would merely put it down to bad phone reception.

            ‘Knew I could count on you,’ Lana said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Turn up anything?’

            ‘Yeah. You’re not gonna like it, though. Every year a ton of cases are referred, but then each one has to get forwarded to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for the country in question, and … that’s where the cases usually get dropped. There’s actually been very few instances where it’s led to direct action from the international community.’

            ‘Ah, fuck. Okay. I guess that makes sense. Disappointing, though.’ Lana paused, sucking in breath. ‘Could you try find more case studies from Syria itself?’

            ‘Sure. That’d probably make your piece come off as stronger.’

            ‘Yup. S’all about the international pressure, at this point. So, when did Syria ratify the convention, anyways? Early 2000’s, right?’

            ‘I, hang on…’ Pål opened the first folder again, found the list of signatories. ‘2004.’

            ‘Right. I need befores and afters. If you can.’

            ‘Sure thing. I’ll — oh god, it’s so old-fashioned in here, they actually have micro-fiches.’

            Lana laughed at this. ‘Oh man. Amazing.’

            ‘I’ll get you some photocopies.’

            ‘Thanks. You’re an absolute life-saver.’ She sighed. ‘Man, this is all so fucked-up, huh? I really appreciate you checking this stuff out.’

            ‘Yeah, it…’ He shivered. ‘It really doesn’t take long to start feeling sick looking at all this.’

            ‘I know. Tell me about it.’ Lana’s voice was the same cynical, matter-of-fact voice he had come to know over the years, but now he detected something overwhelmingly intense beneath it, for the first time ever. ‘Pål, are you okay?’

            ‘Yeah? Yeah, why?’

            ‘I dunno, you sound … Eh, you sound like something’s up.’

            He sighed. ‘No, I’m …’ But he couldn’t finish the sentence.

            ‘If you wanna talk, I’m here. You know that, right? I’m never too busy for that.’

            ‘Thanks, Lana.’

            She was probably the closest he was ever going to get to an older sister, and he didn’t know why he had not taken her up on the offer. Once he had hung up, he stared at the finished call statistics on his screen, before locking the phone and stuffing it back into his pocket so he didn’t have to think about it any further.

            Once he had photocopied the pages he thought Lana would get most use out of, he realised he still had a few hours to kill before the party. Okay, it wasn’t a party, it was a _function_. Which meant black tie dinner, champagne reception, and a lot of stiff, standing conversations.

            There was no way, in the hours that remained, that he was going to get any more reading done in this place. It was making him feel far too sick. So he idled on down to the IAEA labs, because if anyone would be able to give him more information on the peaceful use of nuclear energy — which he still needed for his damn article — it was them. The International Atomic Energy Agency, the guys who conducted the inspections under Article III of the NPT.

            He’d get sick of the acronyms eventually. In fact, the only reason his head hadn’t exploded with the sheer overload was because he was far too used to such things from online gaming.

 

The director of the IAEA was called Roberto Fazzioli and he was not pleased at the outcome of the treaty amendment. He was happy to give an hour of his time to answering Pål’s questions, and so, they settled into comfortable low-backed chairs in Fazzioli’s air-conditioned office, dark Italian-style coffee on the small table beside them. Fazzioli spoke with a low timbre and a rich Italian accent, and while he seemed jaded, he also seemed kind. He possessed that self-assured, authoritative quality that came with age and experience, much like Adrian, and Pål felt a twinge of shame as he realised _he had a type._ At least Fazzioli seemed to have none of Adrian’s intimidating demeanour.

            ‘The Canadians were perfectly within their rights to request the amendment be altered,’ Fazzioli said, after taking a long drag of his pitch coffee.

            ‘They were? Despite being a non-nuclear state?’

            ‘They have grounds for it. Since the Cold War, Canada has been one of the most vocal proponents of disarmament the world over. They have sunk more funding into our various programs than almost any other state. If the US and any other nation descend into nuclear warfare, Canada has a lot to lose.’ He fussed with his cup on the table, set it first one way, then the other, deft hands manipulating the fine bone china. ‘And yet, they remain a key supporter of peaceful nuclear technology. They really do think it can change the world.’

            ‘Can it?’

            ‘I like to hope so, but it remains risky business.’

            ‘So what do you think about the amendments?’

            This earned him a sigh, and the older man rushed a hand through wiry, greying hair. ‘I’m not happy with the proposed treaty revisions. Not at all. I believe it inhibits opportunity for the developing world. Although, Ambassador Lyndon is not incorrect: it would have necessitated a lot more work for our agency.’

            ‘You think it would have been worth it though?’

            ‘Undoubtedly.’

            Pål finished scribbling to find Fazzioli peered at him over the rim of his thick glasses.

            ‘So how are you finding your visit so far? I’m supposing you’re along with that other British reporter?’

            Oh yeah. The guy from the Indie.

            ‘No, I … came here with Lord Lyndon, actually.’ He didn’t want to mention it, but he would have felt far worse lying.

            ‘You did? Well, you must be getting quite the insider view of the place. The man’s a goldmine of information.’

            Pål agreed somewhat helplessly.

            ‘He’s been quite instrumental in setting up our inspection policies,’ Fazzioli went on. Pål smiled thinly at this, and kept his mouth shut. His interviewee seemed to sense that the meeting had reached an end, and he rested back in his chair, folded his hands. He really was quite an attractive man, and Pål toyed with the ridiculous idea of _how jealous would that make Adrian?_ Such a stupid, childish thought, and he was snapped out of it when Roberto Fazzioli said, ‘Well, I think we should get on, don’t you? I still have much to do before the evening.’

            ‘Sure. And thanks for taking the time to talk. It’s been really helpful.’

            ‘Any time. I look forward to seeing your article in print.’ And with that, Pål was ushered out of the comfortable office.

            Now all that remained of the trip was the damn party. Function. Whatever.

            Best get to it.

 


	7. The Executioner’s Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the evening party does not entirely go to plan. Our poor blond reporter is very out of his element, despite his valiant attempts to stand up for justice. It's probably a bad idea to mix revenge and sex. Oh, and alcohol. A really bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, wrote too much for one chapter. Another one's coming.
> 
> And, if anyone's coming to this anew, it's worth reading from the start, because this AU is not a conventional one.

 

The evening was off to a bad start. Pål stood waiting for the lift, fiddling with his phone, trying to turn the damn thing off due to the sheer number of messages pinging through. He didn’t want to be thinking about Prompto or Ardyn or anything to do with World of Eos. By the time he had managed to switch it to silent, the lift doors had opened to reveal Adrian.

            He almost dropped his phone. And, by the looks of things, Adrian was equally surprised. He couldn’t have planned this encounter.

            So there Pål stood, in the nicest dress suit he had, all ready to head down to the hotel’s function room where the evening event was to take place, staring down his unwelcome benefactor — who was, of course, dressed in a far more impressive suit than he — while a holidaymaking couple waited anxiously behind him to board the lift.

            Adrian’s shock melted quickly into a polite smile, and he held the door open, beckoning them on with the slightest inclination of his head, the smallest twitch of an eyebrow.

            The hairs on the back of Pål’s neck prickled and he got into the lift, moving next to Adrian to allow the couple enough space.

            Fuck’s sake.

            One of the women was unnecessarily chatty as the lift descended the remaining three floors. She complimented both Adrian and Pål — ‘You both look _lovely_ , are you here for the UN party?’ — and Adrian responded in like tone, asked them where they were going, wished them well on their date.

            Ground floor, the tourists left for the lobby, and Adrian and Pål were alone together. Pål tried to hurry it up, get out the lift and get on his way, but Adrian moved first. Ushered him out with a kind smile — and a hand that Pål refused to take — and as they walked to the hall, he said, ‘Your friend is awfully eager, getting you to do her digging for her.’

            Pål shot him a dirty look.

            ‘Such a shame you couldn’t have just asked me,’ Adrian continued, as nonchalant as though he was discussing the weather.

            ‘You were watching me?’

            ‘It’s not exactly hard to spot the doe-eyed gaze of a newcomer wandering about, haplessly lost in those corridors.’

            ‘I knew where I was going.’

            ‘Evidently.’ He leaned over, close enough for Pål to focus on his red satin tie, close enough to smell his cologne, and said, ‘I’ll let her have this one for free. Since she’s a nice girl, and she and I have entered no _arrangement_.’ Pål glowered. Adrian went on. ‘But she should talk to the Rapporteur at the Special Procedures Office — Piotr Lozinski, lovely chap — and you never know, she might get her little case brought forward.’

            Pål absorbed the information, his anger rising all the while.

            ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,’ he said stiffly. As little of a thank you as possible was all Adrian deserved.

            They arrived at the function hall together, Pål making sure to keep just that little bit of distance from Adrian’s side. He wasn’t walking _with_ him, after all.

            Inside, Adrian was recognised immediately and greeted by several people. This was one situation in which his magnetism offered him no favours, because it gave Pål the perfect opportunity to break away. He left Adrian to his friends — no, _fans_ — and headed to the first table of canapés he saw. He wasn’t hungry at all, but hey, food was as good a distraction as any.

            And it was there that he spied the director of the Atomic Agency. Roberto Fazzioli, looking fine in a well-tailored suit, inspecting the vol-au-vents with an overly critical eye. A wry little thought seeded itself in his mind, and he stepped forward.

            ‘Director, good to see you.’ Across the room, he could feel Adrian’s eyes on him, and the satisfaction spread, as luxurious as waves of heat from an oven. He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, keeping his attention rapt on Fazzioli.

            ‘Mr Sølvberg, it’s a pleasure!’ A warm smile, then a mild moment of confusion as Fazzioli tried to decide what to do with the vol-au-vent he had just picked up. He ended up popping the whole thing into his mouth, then cleaning his hands off with a napkin, before offering a handshake.

            Pål couldn’t help but smile.

            ‘Are they good?’ He motioned towards the pastry the older man was hurriedly trying to eat.

            ‘Mm,’ — Fazzioli swallowed, then grinned apologetically — ‘not bad, if you don’t mind your prosciutto a little on the crispy side.’

            Pål tried one. It really wasn’t too bad.

            He talked with the Director for a while, enjoying the soft, smooth waves of the man’s accent. A waiter came around bearing a tray of drinks and he took one tall, thin glass of champagne, sipped at it politely. Things were a lot better with alcohol. He sipped and he listened and he talked idly, and inch by precious inch, the tension in his muscles let go its hold.

            ‘So, this kind of event… _function_ … is this something that usually happens after a treaty amendment passes?’

            ‘Are you going to quote me on this?’ Fazzioli turned his warm, brown eyes on him and god, he really was _nice_. All that Pål read off him was generosity — there was none of that underlying threatening nature that Adrian harboured, and while this might have been something he once would have shied away from, right now it was incredibly attractive. Kindness in the creases of his face, kindness in the waves of his wiry grey hair. Pål almost wanted to lean in and trace his lips across —

            _Stop it._

He flashed the man a smile, and said, ‘Oh, no, you’re off the record.’

            A soft laugh from the older gentleman. ‘Well, you are much too kind. But no, to answer your question, it is not something we do every time.’ He paused, and surveyed the room. ‘I think, in this particular case, everyone is — what’s the word? Drained.’

            ‘Mhm. I just — it feels odd, I guess. It doesn’t feel like we should be celebrating.’

            Fazzioli nodded. A silent agreement. Then, ever diplomatic, he countered. ‘Well, for many, it’s certainly a reason to celebrate. So, I think we all need this opportunity. And — you never know what the future may bring.’ Eyes bright, Roberto Fazzioli tilted his glass towards Pål, and said, ‘Cin cin.’

            Pål echoed the sentiment, keen to match him, although the words were foreign and his accent unpolished. Their glasses did not touch directly, but the connection was there, forming between their shared gaze, and the flush of satisfaction that coursed through Pål’s veins as he took a generous sip of champagne made everything worth it. He talked some more, drank some more, and started to truly enjoy himself. Until —

            ‘Glad to see you making friends.’

            A shiver coursed through Pål as the honeyed tones reached him. Hairs prickling to attention, and oh, how pyrrhic his victory felt at the very sound of Adrian’s voice. Then, beside him, Adrian swept in, all power and presence, taking up space like he was owed it, but still playing off that humble façade. It was enough for Roberto Fazzioli to smile in good humour and greet him with what seemed like genuine kinship.

            ‘Ah, Adrian, how good to see you, my old friend.’

            Adrian’s smile bore teeth, but he remained friendly enough.

            ‘Roberto, it has been far too long.’ They embraced, a small gesture of a kiss on either cheek. No hug, for Adrian was holding a glass in each hand. ‘I do hope my young charge has not been a bother?’

            ‘Not at all, he is wonderful company.’ Again, the glow through Pål’s body, the smug satisfaction. But then, Fazzioli glanced from one to the other, sensing something in the air. ‘Ah, forgive me, I will not keep you any longer.’ A clap on Adrian’s shoulder as he manoeuvred out of the way. ‘You’ve got a bright young protégé there, my friend.’ Then a nod, and a farewell, and Pål’s last hope of inciting Adrian to jealousy walked away, taking another couple of vol-au-vents along with him.

            The look on Adrian’s face was so unbearably triumphant.

            ‘He’s not wrong, you know.’

            It took all Pål’s willpower to avoid rolling his eyes. This whole situation, even far beyond the confines of the party, was ridiculous, and it was only getting worse.

            ‘Anyway. This is for you.’ He held out the glass, and Pål gave him what he hoped was a withering glance, because he wasn’t that dumb. He held up what remained of his own glass.

            ‘I’m already covered.’

            Adrian nodded, and placed the unwanted gift on the table beside them.

            Well, here they were.

            He had to say something before Adrian did. He had to nip all hints of friendly conversation in the bud.

            ‘Please don’t make small talk.’

            Adrian raised an eyebrow, amused but courteous enough to hold his tongue. They drank in silence, the tension growing unbearable. Around them, a space had opened up, and Pål used the opportunity to move further out of the limelight. Adrian, of course, followed, until they stood by one of the pillars, wallflowers content to merely watch the party around them. Watching the flow of people, the flow of energy, listening in to snippets of passing conversations. It was hard for a man like Adrian to sink into the background, but somehow, he managed it. Perhaps it was a benefit of having such presence, being able to signal when he was not to be disturbed. Either way, they were left quite alone.

            It was after many minutes of this, that the silence between them grew too great and Pål knew he had to say something. To acknowledge what had happened.

            ‘How could you?’ He said it quietly, but that did not diminish its strength. Adrian looked almost regretful, but the moment passed.

            ‘Pål, it was only a bit of fun!’

            ‘A bit of fun? You ruined everything I had going on there!’

            ‘Ah, you’re acting as though your avatar is really you.’ The expression on his face had turned coy, daring now, and Pål had a hint of the meaning that lay beneath it.

            ‘Don’t say it.’

            Adrian raised an eyebrow. _Say what?_

            ‘That I’m overreacting.’

            ‘You _are_ overreacting.’

            ‘Say that again, I dare you.’

            Pål had no idea how he had gotten so bold, and the fact his mouth was running away from him was worrying. Made him so tense. No, he had to master the situation. He put down his glass on the nearest table, looked Adrian directly in the eyes. The hall seemed to drop away, turn fuzzy at the edges like a vignette. Pål waited with bated breath. Adrian was all prepped to be oppressive, domineering — his stance and the atmosphere was simply perfect for it — but ultimately, he did not take that role.

            ‘Would you understand why? If your own family — or all that remained of it — deserted you?’ He spoke so painstakingly, and he seemed so world-weary. It would have been easy to follow the social cues and give him sympathy.

            ‘My mother left me to go live in Norway again,’ Pål countered. Adrian raised an eyebrow, and lifted his glass to his lips once more, poised to take a sip.

            ‘So perhaps you do understand.’

            ‘I wouldn’t do what you did, though.’

            ‘My brother,’ Adrian said, ‘took the family fortune. He abandoned me to make my own — and I did — but I never forgave him that fact. Would you?’

            ‘My mother’s family own a mountain cabin. It’s a pretty big deal, they get passed down in families for generations. Anyway, it’s inheritance I’m never going to see.’ Pål was surprised at how steady his voice came out, and he faced down Adrian, letting the challenge be clearly seen. He had not been interested in his drink for a while, but Adrian was still sipping away at his, as nonchalantly as possible, and it would be interesting to learn just how much composure the man still had beneath that mask. Maybe there was no chill left and this was all just for show — it was so hard to tell with Adrian.

            For once, Adrian had nothing to say in response, and this made Pål feel a little more powerful than before. Or perhaps it was just the effect of the champagne.

            He settled back and surveyed the room. The people gathered here, half of them were so easily moved by opportunity; as he had seen from the proceedings earlier in the day, while the other half were idealistic; hopeful and wanting for a better world, a little bit like him. He felt horribly underprepared for everything.

            Adrian was watching him watch the crowd, and this became apparent when the older man moved towards him, slowly but with precision, stopping with his hand in mid-air a couple of inches from Pål’s shoulders.

            ‘May I?’

            The question made Pål hesitate. He had imagined that, should this situation arise, he would say no outright, as he should have done. But he was drunk, and he was tired, and he was any other excuse he could think of to cover the fact that he responded to simple kindnesses far too easily. And so, he nodded.

            Adrian completed the action without any show of victory, draping his arm around Pål’s shoulders and turning until he was slowly, amicably leading Pål around the room. There was a single prerogative in Pål’s head, drumming out like a schoolboard mantra — _hold your nerve, hold your nerve —_ and he had to keep a grip on that thought because the weight of Adrian’s arm was perversely comforting.

            ‘Did you know,’ Adrian began, the sonorous edge creeping back into his voice, ‘that the average tenure of a post at the UN is seven years? It comes with quite a few attractive perks, too. The duty-free whiskies, for a start. They’re quite a steal.’

            ‘Right.’

            Where was Adrian going with this?

            ‘Many of the men and women you see here come for the opportunity and stay for the perks. They move from project to project, renewing tenure because they’ve found their sweet spot in life. What that means,’ he said, speaking all the closer to Pål’s ear, ‘is that there’s a lot of old blood here. Are their hearts in it? Do they _care?’_

‘Why are you telling me this?’

            ‘Because it’s clear you’re struggling to understand the outcome of today’s proceedings.’

            _Presumptuous of you,_ Pål thought, but he said nothing, because it was true, after all.

            Adrian went on. ‘Very few think they can truly change the world any more.’

            ‘I don’t think you give people enough credit.’

            ‘You don’t have to work with these idiots.’

            Pål wasn’t expecting the tug of empathy at his chest. Of course, it vanished the instant he reminded himself that Adrian was not in this for any such noble cause either.

            Well. Maybe he had been, once.

            ‘I still can’t believe you swayed the vote.’

            ‘You can hate me all you like,’ Adrian said. ‘It might make some things easier.’ He still spoke with amusement, as though he was manoeuvring chess pieces despite already knowing the outcome. A small squeeze of Pål’s shoulder, barely enough to agitate, then he let go his grip.

            The empty space in the absence of Adrian’s touch was far too cool. Pål turned back to the throng of people, and decided to ignore Adrian’s last remark, and go mingle for a bit. He walked away without a word.

 

Two glasses of champagne later and Pål had grown utterly disillusioned with the party. Roberto Fazzioli was nowhere to be seen, so that put his crude little revenge plan on the backburner. The few people that were keen to talk to him did not have anything particularly enlightening to say — not what he would have expected from such an international stage as this. Perhaps it was the press pass around his neck. Or maybe Adrian was right — maybe nobody cared all that much.

            He wandered to the courtyard, under the illusion that he wanted to check out the water feature there, but really, he just wanted the fresh air and the solitude. There were some people milling around the paved pathways, peering at uplit shrubbery. There was no point in watching the night sky with the stars shrouded as they were.

            Still, nobody wanted to talk to Pål, and it made him reconsider his purpose there for the umpteenth time.

            He strolled around listlessly toward the fountain, and watched the water hit the stagnant pool below in a sparkly, frothy array. He finished his drink and left the flute on the fountain’s mantel. He knew the water was not as clean as it seemed, but nonetheless he wanted to dip his hand in and bring some to his face, feel the coolness on his skin.

            The next glass of champagne, picked up as he re-entered the hall, did wonders for loosening the tight lid on his emotions. It could have been, that in some recess of his mind, he had planned it this way from the start, to get drunk enough to confront, to accuse. He was thinking about Roth, about these machinations both subtle and overt, and finally, he sought out Adrian — who was waiting by the bar, smiling like he had known, like he had expected it — and he asked him.

            ‘Did you convince Lord Roth to step down?’

            There was no point in _not_ being direct.

            Adrian feigned surprise, one hand to his breast as he put down his whisky glass, because yes, of course he had moved on to whisky at this stage in the evening. ‘Me?’

            ‘Come on, Adrian.’ And here, Pål was the one to lean in, and he caught sight of something wild and excited in Adrian’s eyes, hiding beneath the layer of propriety and decorum. ‘I know you,’ Pål said. ‘I know you’d do it. Drive someone to it.’ As he spoke, he realised he was not talking about Roth any more; he meant Crowe with every inch of his being. Adrian could tell. His eyes darkened, growing infinitely more dangerous.

            ‘We should find somewhere to continue our conversation.’

            Pål knocked back the remaining contents of his glass and nodded. So close to the truth now, and he just wanted the man to _say_ it, to confirm what he already so heavily suspected. He was ready.

 

Adrian’s room was on the upper floors, of course it was. The same hotel, but the panelling on the walls was a lot nicer, and the carpet lacked the rough edges. Adrian had brought his glass of whisky up with him, which was somewhat reassuring, because no man with a full glass was going to start a fight.

            Not that he thought Adrian would; he wasn’t the type. Although, the amount of times his assumptions had been proven wrong recently didn’t afford him much certainty.

            But Pål was angry, emotional from the alcohol, frustrated from the lack of release and the lack of closure, and so he pressed on. Followed Adrian into the room.

            And damn, if this wasn’t swanky as hell. Small pin lights glowed softly from the ceiling, perfectly-fitted, looking like stars studding the night sky. From the corners of the room to the haloes of light, there was a perfect gradient from dark to brightness. The floor was deep laminate, with plush rugs lining the bed and the settee, and the texture of the wallpaper was velvety enough for him to want to reach out and touch. Lampshades were perched on the wall, like old Victorian oil lamps. At perfect intervals hung framed paintings, much more refined than the garish Impressionist copies that adorned his own room.

            Adrian caught him looking.

            ‘You’ll have to ask Cedric for more of a budget next time.’

            Pål ignored him entirely. He closed the door behind him, slamming it a little harder than he needed to, and paced in the narrow stretch of the entrance area.

            ‘You sabotage the power plant to weaken EXINERIS’ stock. That’s where this begins, isn’t it? With Katherine. You drove her to it.’

            Adrian’s expression darkened.

            ‘Now, that’s not a very fair thing to accuse someone of.’

            It was very convincing, but it was all a façade. He knew Adrian well enough by now. His next words were direct, unflinching.

            ‘Did you kill Katherine Crowe?’ And he made sure to say her name, her _full_ name, because he didn’t want Adrian to get the chance to shy away from it. ‘Was it worth it? For your stupid little revenge plot?’

            Adrian said nothing, but after a few seconds, he smiled.

            ‘Oh, you fucking — I knew it.’

            ‘I did nothing so direct with her.’

            ‘She was _alive_. And happy—’

            ‘You don’t know that.’

            ‘Fuck’s sake, Adrian! She’s dead! She …’

            He paused. He didn’t know what else to say. The space left between them felt far too gaping.

            ‘Something happened that Saturday night. Before she died. She called me.’ He spied the smallest of twitches on Adrian’s lip. Even if it wasn’t for long, Pål had the upper hand.

            ‘What did she tell you?’

            ‘She said you blackmailed her.’ This was a gamble, but if he told the truth — that all she had done was leave him a very confusing voicemail — he would get nowhere.

            ‘I see.’ Adrian did not elaborate, but he didn’t need to. This was confirmation enough, and it was satisfying as hell. Satisfying, until he remembered that Crowe was dead and nothing was going to fix that, and, knowing that Adrian pushed her somehow to drive out to some remote location and down a bottle of pills, damn, this had so many legal implications. His brain was spinning. He changed the subject before he began to feel too sick.

            ‘And she wasn’t the only one.’ He began to pace again. ‘You force Lord Roth into a checkmate and that’s two birds with one stone — he steps down over the nuclear funding, it’s more bad news for EXINERIS, and you get a free shot at becoming Chancellor.

            ‘And then you … you string _me_ up… Blackmail my best friend, all to get back at Nicholas’s dad for some past indiscretion you clearly think you can’t fix any other way than this childish farce.’

            He was surprised, in all honesty, that the words did not come out a garbled mush. He never expected to be this eloquent when enraged. But, despite his dexterity, Adrian was merely watching him spout off, and it was hard to tell whether he was amused or impressed. Once Pål had run out of breath, Adrian said, ‘It’s so much more than some minor indiscretion. So much more.’ Again, his voice melted the bristling atmosphere, confusingly calming, that was, until he continued, and was unable to hide the spite. ‘He cut me off from _everything_ , not just one house, not just one fortune. Every piece of our family history. He erased me from it. Do you know what that’s like? To be erased because your own brother would rather his new wife and his precious little son reap the rewards?’

            Doubtless there was more to it than that — there were always two sides to every story — but he wasn’t about to mention that. He wouldn’t get a straight answer from Adrian anyway. Better to shift the focus.

            ‘And that’s worth hurting people who had nothing to do with it?’

            Adrian put down his whisky glass on the bedside table, and settled his gaze on Pål. So the answer was yes, although he was not going to say it aloud. He didn’t need to. Instead, he let the silence weigh a little more, before stepping forward, closer into Pål’s personal space.

            ‘When we return to London, you will see the culmination of my hard work. Oh, it’s been years in the making, Pål.’ He was close enough now to reach out, but Pål stood his ground, refusing to shy away.

            Adrian continued. ‘I am so sorry that you were just a pawn in the grand scheme of something so much bigger. Such a pity.’ He closed the remaining few inches, dragged his hand softly through Pål’s hair. The expression that crossed his face was blissful.

            Pål twitched away.

            ‘What, too much?’

            The hand retracted.

            Pål righted his hair, and ignored the comment. ‘When we return to London, the only thing you’re gonna see is a full-spread feature in the paper.’ He was hoping he sounded as angry and determined as he felt, but he doubted it when Adrian started laughing. It was a low, soft laugh, but it missed none of its intent to humiliate.

            ‘Now, if you had been any more prepared, you would have started recording long before we encountered one another this fine evening.’ A pause. ‘Ah. I thought not.’

            ‘I could—’ Pål immediately went for his phone, trying to drag it out of his trouser pocket in time. He’d fucking start now. Screw the game — he didn’t care if Adrian still had the screenshots, he wouldn’t lose his job once he wrote about _this._

            Adrian knocked it out of his grip. The phone skittered away on the laminate flooring, and Pål swore and swatted Adrian’s hand out of the way.

            ‘Had one too many? You should probably stop before you cause a scene. I’ve said all that needs be said anyway.’

            ‘Oh, fuck you.’ Pål steadied himself against the wall. He wasn’t as drunk as Adrian was implying. ‘All you wanted was revenge. You used me. I was nothing more than a — than a—’’ He couldn’t bring himself to say _whore._

            ‘No, I wanted you. You simply were able to give me so much more than even you knew.’

            ‘I didn’t want this.’

            ‘No, you only wanted the sex. Ah, young people, so predictable these days.’

            Pål shot him the dirtiest glance he could.

            ‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’

            ‘And you … you were never really interested in helping me at all.’ Adrian leaned closer. ‘In fact, you were only ever keen to help me when I whispered into your ear — _like so.’_

Pål shivered, then pushed him away. It was the first time he had laid hands on Adrian’s suit jacket the entire night — never mind the amount of times Adrian had touched _him_ — and the fabric seemed impossibly silken beneath the open palm of his hand. It seemed too soft for the situation they were in. Such a contrast next to his barely-contained anger as he said, ‘You made me betray my best friend!’

            ‘Friends come and go, you’ll see that in time.’

            Oh, fuck this.

            The wave of alcohol in his system swelled and, as it receded, it made him feel all too acutely aware of his irrationality, his impulsive emotions, his urge to spur something into action. He felt horribly immature, unready for this, foolish for stepping out into this wolves’ playground. Adrian could probably see it written on his face, clear as if it was in bold marker. Idiot here, ready for use and abuse.

            It was the strangest things that caught one’s attention when the fuzz of intoxication rolled in. He focussed too hard on the fleur-de-lys patterning on the wallpaper, on the way it caught the low glint from the ceiling light, on the way it almost seemed pearlescent at the edges. He should have been heading for the door.

            ‘You don’t want to be responsible, do you?’ Adrian came closer, step by precious step, tension in the room tightening all the while like guitar strings gone far beyond their normal range, and it took all Pål’s nerve to not shrink against the wall. There, the whisper, close to his ear again, and god, it was so low, so delicious. ‘So how about I tell you what to do? I know what you need.’

            Pål said ‘Fuck off!’ a few seconds too late.

            ‘But you want to, though, don’t you?’

            A hesitation, and it was all Adrian required.

            ‘If you don’t, you’re welcome to walk away right now.’ Adrian spread his arms wide, and Pål glanced back at the door, breathing in, breathing out, taking too long to decide.

            ‘No?’

            Pål avoided his eyes. He didn’t want to walk out just yet. And he could hear the pleasure, the self-satisfaction in Adrian’s voice as he continued.

            ‘Nicholas doesn’t need to know.’

            ‘You expect me to trust you, after that?’

            ‘Have I broken any of the terms of our agreement yet? No. I told no-one about what went on behind closed doors—’

            ‘You did about the game!’

            ‘I didn’t about _reality,’_ Adrian countered, and Pål felt himself brush the edge of a very plausible and dangerous future. What should happen if he walked out the door right now? If he said no? If he said yes? There was the awful idea that Adrian might tell people about that night at the pub and what happened after, and again, the scandalous headlines filled his mind. He didn’t know what the right decision was.

            Fuck Adrian for having the power.

            ‘Are you blackmailing me?’

            Adrian’s eyebrows creased upward, faux-shock, kind and disarming again. ‘Right now? Heavens, no! As I said, the door is open.’ Another careless hand gesture towards the room’s only exit. ‘But if you don’t want to leave… Consider this a reward.’ And then, the sentence that made him flip. ‘I think you’ve earned it.’

            The idea of receiving payment for his part in all this was repulsive. Made him feel dirty. And so, so fucking angry.

            He struck out, but Adrian only laughed and said, ‘Come now, Pål. I promise, this’ll be fun,’ and that did not improve his mood. Adrian avoided his second blow too, but not his third, and that damn daring smile cracked wider when Pål’s fist clipped the side of his head. It was like he wanted it. He went down a little too easily, and that pleased Pål at first, because he knew nothing about fighting and had merely been lashing out wildly in the hopes his blows would connect. He did not let his success run away from him, wasting no time in jumping atop the bed until he was straddling Adrian, forcing him down onto the mattress. Before he knew what he was doing, he had gripped tight round Adrian’s neck and was throttling him into the pillow.

            And all the while Adrian gazed up at him, eyes hazy and pupils dark and wide. Hair cast up in disarray, lips parted ever so slightly. He looked joyous. He looked ecstatic.

            ‘Oh, you can do better than that.’ Firm hands found his and pressed them harder, forcing Pål to grip tighter around his throat. The rush of endorphins that had originally swept over Pål melted away into horror. Adrian was too strong. He was going to force him to suffocate him.

            Was this all somehow part of Adrian’s plan?

            Did the man have a death wish?

            Whatever the reason, Pål suddenly didn’t want to be responsible. He swore, yelled out, tried to use his body weight to leverage his hands away, but that only led to him grinding into the bed. It was then, while he grappled to regain control, that he noticed his fiery display was getting Adrian hard.

            He huffed, fretted, struggled some more, while Adrian clamped his hands down tighter, choked a little, kept smiling. Then, when Adrian had decided enough was enough, he pried Pål’s hands away.

            At this point, there was little doubt that his gasping was just for show.

            ‘No, you don’t get to have this your way,’ Pål muttered, loath to allow him the satisfaction, and still burning with unspent anger. And, now, ideation was an interesting thing, because his brain split into two different pathways — one, rippling with excitement at what he so desperately wanted to do to release the anger, and the other, watching critically, knowing that it would be so very ill-advised.

            ‘So show—’ But before Adrian could finish speaking, Pål slapped him, hard, and pressed his thighs in harder, higher, above Adrian’s chest. He unbuckled his own belt, then his trousers, slipping them down to his hips. He grabbed hold his dick with little ceremony and thrust the barely-semi-erect length into Adrian’s mouth. He would get hard inside him, that was the plan. He was drunk enough to not even consider the possibility that Adrian might bite, or use his greater strength to overpower him — he only wanted to punish. And yet, it confused him, how much Adrian just accepted it. Perhaps this was all part of his plan, too?

            Fuck.

            It only made him thrust even harder. A noise of distaste escaped him and he muttered, ‘Take it, you bastard. Take it — you don’t deserve any better.’

            Within the minute it became apparent that Adrian was very much enjoying himself. His tongue curled round Pål’s length decadently, eagerly, and his cheeks hollowed out as he sucked to the best of his ability. Pål was barely able to contain a gasp — he should have guessed Adrian would be a first-rate cocksucker. A wandering hand traversed his thigh, and Pål swiftly knocked it back with his knee.

            _No._

Pål pushed his cock in deeper, hands fisted in Adrian’s long hair.

            ‘Fucking choke on it.’ And he felt satisfied when the man beneath him spluttered. He held himself there, plugging the back of Adrian’s throat, until the bucking beneath him came too close to vomit for him to be comfortable. He pulled out, let Adrian recover, and did it again.

            His grand plans were interrupted when a knock came at the door. He stopped thrusting, but kept his cock in Adrian’s mouth and kept his grip on that fine long hair as he turned towards the door.

            No idea of the exact hour, but it was pretty late at night — who the hell was it?

            He was aware he had frozen like a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar, even though nobody had come in. Neither he nor Adrian attempted to move, and a moment later the knocking came again.

            ‘Hotel staff — is everything okay in there, Sir?’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger >:)


	8. Dream On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending, in which lessons are learned the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than planned. Parts of it got too real, too current, and my headspace went too deep in it. But at long last. IT IS DONE. Here, have this hideous thing.
> 
> \--------  
> Start from the beginning if you're seeing this for the first time - the different names may be confusing

  

The knock at the door came again, and Pål swore under his breath. He turned back to Adrian, getting off him slowly. ‘Don’t fucking—’

            ‘Please. You’d better go take care of them.’ Adrian smiled, wiped his mouth, and watched Pål awkwardly make his way to the door. It didn’t seem like he was going to say anything to alert the hotel staff to his predicament, but one never knew. He could simply be waiting for the opportune moment.

            ‘Sir?’

            Pål cracked open the door. A man in a red-trimmed waistcoat stood there, eyes searching his.

            ‘Sorry — yes, everything’s okay in, uh, in here.’

            ‘Of course, Sir. We simply had some noise complaints from others on this floor. They worried there may be a fight.’

            ‘A fight? No, not in here.’ Pål laughed, hoping it wasn’t coming across as too awkward. He kept the door open only a crack, because his dick was still tenting under his roughly-pulled-up pants, and he didn’t want the attendant to see Adrian. Would the attendant notice his ruffled hair? Could he smell his musk? Fucking hell, this was ridiculous. ‘I did … think I heard something a bit further down the hall, though.’

            ‘Very well, Sir. Have a nice night.’

            Pål nodded, and closed the door. He hung by it until he heard the man walk further down the hall. Then, interruption dealt with, he turned back to the bed.

            Adrian rose, slow and determined. ‘Bravo, my boy.’ He fixed his collar, came closer, acting for all the world as though he hadn’t just been pushed down on the bed and forced to suck Pål’s cock. More so, when he said, ‘Now. Allow me.’ Something in his posture set him above everything else in the room. Magnetic, just like the first time they had met. His eyes were harder, more stern than before, and he beckoned; the slightest and most tightly-controlled movement of a hand. That alone was enough to make Pål shiver and, almost immediately, he put himself on the defensive. From the very beginning, he had never been in control, and now more than ever, he felt that so incredibly keenly.

            ‘What’re you gonna do — tie me up like you did in the game?’

            A short bark of a laugh from Adrian. ‘I don’t have the tools for that.’

            _Then, what?_

            ‘You do want this, don’t you?’

            His head was spinning. God damn it, he did want to. Lie down, give up, fall.

            He did want to.

            And so, he obeyed the beckoning hand, stepping forward, head still spinning. Shit, where was his phone? Over by the bathroom door somewhere. Did he have the chance to grab it? Although - if he did, what could he hope to do? Start recording — that wasn’t going to work. And besides, Adrian was speaking again, cutting through the air with his silver tongue and once again, Pål’s champagne-addled brain latched on to it.

            ‘You’re still young, with a fruitful career ahead of you.’ And then, echoing the words from the car, ‘Consider this your education.’

            Pål counted the spaces between his breaths. He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking about this.

            _Okay, then. Fine._

            He tilted his neck back. Parted his lips. Hesitated when Adrian started to lean in, raising a hand slightly.

            ‘I want it to be the end, after this.’

            Adrian looked almost sad as he brushed back Pål’s blond hair. ‘Such a shame,’ he said, his voice a whisper. ‘Such a shame.’ He was speaking more to himself than to Pål. Then he tugged on his press pass lanyard, and pulled him forward. A breath escaped Pål along with the sudden movement. ‘As you wish,’ Adrian said, and then he enveloped him in a crushing kiss. The taste of his lips was musky, laden with Pål’s own scent. But that didn’t matter; somehow it became sweet on his tongue, somehow it melted into the background as he kissed back, giving as much as he was getting, seeking to match, to keep up, to prove himself.

            Somewhere in between his fervent kisses, a feeling of revulsion rose. Adrian’s lips streaked wetness across his face and it left him pulsing, yearning for more, and he realised _Oh god, I really fucking hate him._

            He struggled, Adrian tackled him back, and he struggled harder until he found his wrists restrained and Adrian said, ‘Fight back, go on, give it a try.’

            Pål did, but he was swiftly overpowered — slammed face-first onto the bed with Adrian on top of him, pushing him down with one hand firm between the shoulder blades. From this angle he couldn’t turn round, and the breath at his ear grew overwhelming — enough to make him panic.

            ‘Wait…’

            Adrian stopped. ‘Having second thoughts?’

            He hesitated, but mostly because this concession was not what he expected. Was Adrian _checking in?_ This suddenly felt an awful lot like allowing consent and this was not what he had expected. He could feel the gaze of his captor upon him, he could feel the tension held in those precious few inches between them. Nothing happened for what felt like the longest time, and it was frustrating. At length, he answered.

            ‘I said yes, so just fuck me already.’

            Adrian laughed. ‘Did you, now?’

            No, he hadn’t, had he? He hadn’t said as much aloud, and in the lull left by his embarrassment, he closed his eyes, wincing, certain his cheeks were reddening by the second.

            ‘Well, then, you eager thing...’ Adrian towered over him again, one hand stroking along his back, the other tugging at his trousers. Pål shifted as best he could, angling his ass up, giving space to unbuckle his belt. Adrian sighed deeply when he found the smooth curve of his ass, cupping it firmly. His hand drifted further down, until he had purchase enough to toy with his asshole, teasing, ringing a fingertip around it, but not delving in. When Pål began to buck up against him, he moved away.

            ‘Patience.’

            Pål let himself relax into the mattress, but unwillingly. This was frustrating.

            When Adrian returned with lube, Pål bucked up into his touch again, surrendering to the sensation, and _holy crap_ , it felt good, Adrian’s deft fingers working him open like this. As he pressed on a point deep inside, curling his finger in on the out-stroke, nerves shivered into life all the way up Pål’s spine, and he let out a low moan.

            ‘Oh, you’re such a good boy. Look at you. So obedient.’

            _Fuck_ , that voice, and those movements, it was enough to make him melt. It was the worst. It was perfect.

            His moaning grew louder, such an odd accompaniment to Adrian’s smooth, deep voice as he did what Pål had long fantasised about and talked him through it. Then, just as Pål began to wonder if this alone would be enough to make him orgasm, Adrian withdrew.

            ‘I think that’s far enough.’ Then, closer against the shell of his ear, ‘Tell me you want me inside you.’

            ‘I… please…’

            The pressure at his back increased, the voice grew deeper. ‘Tell me.’

            ‘I… I want you inside me!’

            He could hear the smirk in the way Adrian exhaled.

            Then, his ass being manipulated into position. He went with it, let himself be moved. The sensation of Adrian’s considerable length pulsing against his ass cheeks was enough to make him shudder and he re-asserted the position of his wrists, supporting himself on the mattress, bracing himself for the intrusion.

            When Adrian entered him, he grabbed a fistful of Pål’s blond hair and drove in hard, using momentum to thrust powerfully, rhythmically. It was a shock to the nerves — almost too much to handle — and the fervent sounds Pål made seemed greatly appreciated.

            ‘You’re so good,’ Adrian drawled out, after thrusting in to the hilt and holding himself there. He waited until his dick pulsed again, drawing out a small exclamation — ‘Fuck!’ — from Pål. Then he was back to the rhythmic thrusting, and there was such power, such force behind it. It took a while for Pål to grow accustomed to the sensation, but once he did, he relaxed a little, and adjusted the position of his wrists on the mattress.

            It came as a surprise when Adrian knocked his supports out from under him. Soon he found his wrists pinned behind his back, and he was pounded into the bed with face smashed against the mattress and no way to steady himself. The next few minutes were nothing but shuddered sighs and yelps of pain with the intensity, because with this position, Adrian could reach so much deeper inside him.

            Adrian kept this up for what seemed an eternity, not even slowing down when he leaned forward over him, reaching out toward the bedside table and — what was he doing? Pål could hardly turn his head to see, being pressed as he was into the mattress. There was the clink of glass and — oh. He had picked up the whisky from where he had left it earlier. Then, a slight pause between thrusts, a smack of wet lips. He was _drinking_ the stuff while he was fucking him. And something about that — maybe the blasé attitude, maybe the sheer self-indulgence — made Pål so mad he started to buck up as best he could, to try and catch him off-guard.

            All this earned him was a low, smug laugh. Adrian finished the drink without spilling a drop; it went back on the table with another rushed clink, and the pounding continued.

            Then Adrian seemed to grow frustrated, withdrawing and flipping Pål onto his back. He held Pål’s arms up above his head, so that his wrists were pinned against the pillow, one hand span enough to encircle both wrists and hold them fast.

            ‘I would prefer to see your face.’

            Adrian re-entered, and this time the pace was slower, more sensual. As each thrust sent warm, rolling shivers through Pål’s body, he sank into the sensation, shamefully enjoying every second. He couldn’t bear to look directly at Adrian, instead focussing on the pin lights like stars in the ceiling, letting himself drift away as if he, too, was becoming something cosmic. But then Adrian kissed him, warm and deep, and as he drew away, there was nowhere else to look. Adrian gazed deep into Pål’s eyes, hands still gripping his wrists hard, everything so intense in that moment that Pål felt utterly, helplessly owned by him.

            As Adrian reached the edge of his orgasm, still gazing down upon Pål so intently, his thrusts increased in strength. He retained the slow pace, which made it sensuous to the point of torture for them both, until he could stave it off no longer. He gripped Pål’s wrists tight as he came, to the point where Pål wondered if his bones would break. And then, in the shuddering aftermath, he refused to pull out for what felt like the longest time, keeping his hold on Pål like he was afraid to let him go. Pål’s own cock was still painfully erect, pressed against his stomach by Adrian’s weight, and once Adrian had recovered enough to pull out and shift, he turned his attentions downward, kissing all the way down Pål’s still-buttoned shirt, lips exploring until they found the tip of his cock and took it in.

            Again, Adrian sucked him off, only this time Pål was powerless, and he stayed that way until Adrian brought him right to the edge of orgasm. Every nerve electric, every question of resistance or love or hate melting away and every second stretched out like he had seen the light on the road to Damascus. It was too much, all at once, and all he could do was let it happen.

            Once he had come, and once he was lying back on the mattress, breathless and exhausted, he wanted to cry. Too many conflicting emotions. It would have been so easy to let himself, and god, he wanted to. But not in front of Adrian. Not now.

            He gathered his breath.

            ‘Is it over? Between us?’

            Adrian rose to sit at the edge of the bed, fixing his collar delicately. God damn, in this low light, with his hair mussed up like that, he really did look incredibly attractive. For a while he said nothing, for a while it was just the rise and fall of his chest as he checked his words internally. Then;

            ‘I shan’t see you again, if that is what you wish.’

            Pål nodded. ‘Okay. Yeah. I don’t think I could…’ He wanted to scratch out that last sentence, say ‘I hate you’ instead — _I hate you and you fucking ruined everything —_ but the words never made it out his mouth. Adrian knew, anyway. He had to.

            Somehow he got the feeling that Adrian would hold to his word. Now that revenge was out of the way, what was he but a tired old man? He no longer had the impetus to fight, his claws now sheathed, his triumph secured.

            And, with that in mind, Pål wondered how long he would be able to keep his own end of the bargain. How tempting it was to just fall back into Adrian’s arms, right here and now. To petition for softness, for tenderness, for an end to this ridiculous scheming.

            Still feeling giddy and close to tears, Pål left. Barely spent any time cleaning up first — he could do that in his own hotel room. And Adrian, oh, it almost killed him, because Adrian watched him go without a word.

 

It was the last time Pål saw him on that trip. He managed to avoid bumping into him the following morning, as he checked out of the hotel at an unreasonably early hour. He caught the shuttle bus back to the airport, crammed in amid dozens of other passengers weighed down by unnecessary luggage, feeling isolated even as he was surrounded. Adrian’s car would have offered far more leg room, and just thinking that made him turn up the volume on his music player all the more, hangover be damned.

            The return to London was uneventful and afforded him far too much time to think. Time in the security line queues, time on the lounge chairs outside the gate, time waiting for the plane to taxi down the runway; it seemed endless, it seemed like a punishment.

 

One of the first things he did when he got back was to text Nicholas.

            <Hey, I’m back from my work trip… You about?>

            <Yeah, sure.>

            Then, a few minutes later:

            <A bit busy with work today… Coffee tomorrow or sth?>

            Pål told him yeah, that sounds cool, and they set a time and a place for the following day. It left Pål with nothing more to do that evening but slow, idle chores around the house. Even a cup of tea didn’t seem to do much to improve his mood, and it took all his willpower to stay away from more alcohol. Wouldn’t do his raging hangover any good, and would only prolong his hell into the next morning. He had to be okay for work. He couldn’t let it show.

            That was what he told himself, but still the thoughts invaded as the day wore on to night, as his brain tried to process everything that had happened.

_It isn’t fair what happened to Katherine. He killed her. I know he killed her._

_And…_

_He could have killed me any time he wanted to._

            Perhaps he deserved such a thing, because it had felt so, so fucking good to submit to him.

            He knew he would be thinking about this for years to come. Wondering why he didn’t have a man like Adrian to fill the small hours of the morning. Seeing him in all the empty spaces. And, unbearably, missing him, despite the awfulness. He lacked the self-respect and he lacked the warmth of a human touch, and that was a terrible combination. But now, thanks to Adrian, he also lacked the trust.

            Pål let himself cry in the safety and isolation of his own room, bedcovers pulled up tight around him like he was a child, as though those soft layers of fabric were the only fortification he had left against the world.

It had been months since he had last seen Nicholas in person. This time was the most awkward yet, because he could see Adrian in Nicholas’s face at every angle: the family resemblance, too strong.

            It was good that they had picked a quiet coffee shop off Baker Street. The smell of crushed coffee beans was overwhelming but served as a good distraction. The slow business meant they had a whole corner of the room to themselves, away from prying ears.

            Pål had arrived first, and he was over-anxious by the time Nicholas walked through the door. The double latte was not doing his stomach any favours — the damn thing was tying itself in knots, working itself up into a mess while he tried to figure out what to say to his best friend.

            ‘Hi.’

            It was a simple enough start, and Nicholas responded in like tone — shy, fragile, a little uncertain. He brushed a lock of dark hair behind his ear as he sank into the seat opposite Pål.

            ‘I… didn’t know what you wanted, so I got a caramel latte.’ Pål motioned toward the second drink before him. It had cream topping, and extra syrup, because that was how Nicholas usually liked it.

            ‘Thanks.’

            For a while after that, neither said a word. Then Nicholas broke the silence.

            ‘So, how was the conference?’

            ‘It was… ah…’ Pål searched for a way to phrase it, tapping his fingers anxiously below the table. ‘It was okay, I guess. Vienna’s nice.’

            ‘Cool.’

            ‘He was there.’

            ‘Oh.’

            Again with the silence. Nicholas took a deep breath and a long drag of his coffee. Then he asked, ‘Did you talk to him?’

            ‘Yeah.’

            He did not dare tell Nicholas that they had fucked. It would have added too much salt to an already-smarting wound. So instead, he told Nicholas about Katherine, about how Adrian had pushed her to end her life. ‘It was all insinuated, all indirect, and like a fucking fool I didn’t get any evidence.’

            ‘Wait, you actually confronted him?’

            ‘Sort of. I mean, not very well. I was a bit drunk.’ He probably should not have said that last part, because Nicholas was looking incredibly worried now. He ignored it, and carried on. ‘He didn’t deny it when I accused him. He was just… fucking _happy,_ like she didn’t even matter.’ _All he cared about was revenge against your father_ , Pål thought, although he didn’t say as much aloud. No point saying what they both already knew.

            ‘Shit,’ said Nicholas, and he took a long drag of coffee.

            ‘Then he admitted to getting the High Chancellor to step down.’

            ‘High Chancellor? Wait, what? Are we talking about the game, or…?’

            ‘Oh! No. In the House of Lords. He’s wanted the position for a while.’

            Nicholas groaned.

            ‘Fucking figures.’

            ‘He’s got a real shot at becoming Chancellor now. He’s gonna have so much fucking power. And I … I don’t know how the hell we set this right…’ At this point the guilt took control and he leaned back in his chair, forcing his eyes to rove around the ceiling so tears wouldn’t spill over.

            ‘We can’t.’

            ‘Come on, there’s gotta be—’

            ‘There’s not! Okay? We say anything and he’ll leak those screenshots again and he probably wouldn’t hesitate to reveal your real-world name this time. The power plant investigation is over. We don’t have any cards left to play. And I won’t let my… my _fucked-up_ family ruin your life any more than they already have.’

            ‘Well. Maybe not now, then. Maybe one day we can—’

            ‘Promise me you won’t. Please, just forget this.’

            What else could he do but agree? He didn’t want to make anything worse for Nicholas, and Nicholas was feeling the same way about him, and it was just such a clusterfuck, the two of them swimming in the debris Adrian had left behind. It became overwhelming, yet again, and he ended up elbows on the table and his head in his hands. ‘God, this is a mess.’

_Don’t cry, damn it, don’t cry._

Hands found his wrists, gently pulling them away from his head. The physical contact was a shock at first; nobody had touched him, not willingly, not on purpose, since the hotel. Pål had to open his eyes, just to double-check that it was really Nicholas in front of him, and yes it was, and somehow focussing on his face just made things worse, just made it all _real_.

            And now the waterworks were starting. This was so fucking embarrassing.

            ‘Hey, Nicholas… We’re still good, are we?’

            Nicholas’s eyebrows quirked up. Empathy — he hadn’t expected to see so much empathy there.

            ‘Of course we are. What kind of stupid question is that?’ He got up, coffee quite forgotten, and he didn’t even wait for Pål to rise too as he came round the side of the table. He hugged him tightly, and Pål didn’t want him to let go.

            ‘We’ll play tonight, yeah? I miss you being around.’ God damn, Nicholas’s breath was so warm on his neck, his voice so soft and genuine. Pål squeezed him tighter, then broke off from the embrace.

 

That evening Pål bought the cheapest, reddest bottle of wine he could find at the One-Stop, and logged on to World of Eos. He didn’t enter the server immediately, instead staying in the lobby and calling up the stat screen for character classes while the others in his guild slowly trickled online.

            ‘Oi Prompto, what’re you doing?’ Gladio had entered the chat.

            ‘Making a new character.’

            ‘What? Hey, don’t let that prick push you around.’

            ‘It’s… not about that. Well, not entirely.’

            ‘Well, what is it about?’

            ‘I’m just not feeling it as much any more. I wanna try something new.’

            Ignis, bless the man, was at least on the ball enough to be supportive about it.

            ‘What class are you going to go for this time?’

            ‘Healer,’ Pål said, after a pause. ‘I’m gonna combine it with Summoner later on to get Oracle.’

            ‘Wow. Ambitious.’ There was a hint of derision, but also of awe, in Gladio’s voice.

            ‘I think he can pull it off,’ said Ignis.

            ‘Damn straight he can,’ Nicholas chimed in. ‘And we’ll help you level the early bits, no problem.’

            ‘Thanks, guys.’ Pål took a large swig of his drink, and returned to character creation while the others loaded into the game and filled idle missions waiting for him to arrive. He kept the blond hair, only, he made it a shade or two lighter. This character had a softer face and slimmer body tone than his old gunslinger had. Less definition on the biceps. More of an ethereal, violet glow to the eyes.

            Finally, he picked a name that held meaning for him. A god from a story he remembered in his childhood — a god of sunshine and peace and holy justice. It would not mean much to almost anyone else, but it made him feel better. At long last, he was ready to begin.

            He skipped the starting scenes, and came to meet his friends in Lucis, twirling around and showing off his avatar.

            ‘So, guys. What do you think?’

In the weeks that followed, although Adrian did not show himself directly, his presence was certainly made known. First, it was the news coming through from the business world that a number of EXINERIS’ shareholders had pulled out of their agreements. Company stock was plummeting, and people started voicing their concerns about the energy giant’s investment choices and future planning. It was a slow-motion train wreck, and had Pål desired to blacken a company’s name with the power of the media he could not have done a better job himself. As it stood, however, he merely watched as each overture of this messed-up dance played out, knowing that Adrian was conducting from behind the scenes.

            It was after hearing about the Chinese deal falling through that Pål reached a breaking point. He had caught the news on his Twitter feed on the tube home, and the matter was still churning away in his head by the time he reached his flat. Remembering that speech Nicholas had given weeks ago, remembering how tired and stressed he had been over it. The pressure to perform, to do his father proud. All that work, for nothing.

            He fumbled for a spare hanger to hang his coat upon, but what he ended up with in his hands was Adrian’s goddamn scarf. He had quite forgotten he’d stuffed it in the closet.

            ‘Oh, fuck off.’

            His throw was weak and the scarf ended up more tangled than it had been before. He gave up and left it. Dropped his coat too. He refused to even consider it for the rest of the evening, distracting himself with dinner, with games he couldn’t focus on, with TV shows he wasn’t really watching.

 

There was an incinerator drum round the back of the office building. Nobody was ever around there, so the next day at lunch, Pål stole out of the office and went there, taking the scarf with him.

            The day was an inconsequential one; grey skies and hardly any wind, and an unfulfilled threat of rain. It was perfect, because it wasn’t special, and Adrian didn’t deserve special.

            He struck the fire up, and watched with a lump in his throat as the fabric slowly caught the spark, as it started to smoke and curl. The scent it released was sweet sandalwood and cedar, and in his mind’s eye he saw Adrian wrapping the thing tenderly round his shoulders, so much care behind the act.

            _Scrub him out. Don’t think about it._

He jumped when the door behind him clanged open. Lana walked out, white-blonde hair whipping in the wind.

            ‘Wondered who was out here.’

            She came to join him. There was no point in hiding what he was doing, so he just let her stand by him. She gave it a few moments, then said, ‘He wasn’t worth it.’

            He exhaled, far too fast.

            ‘Fuck.’

            Of course she already had him all figured out. She was too damn smart.

            The touch on his shoulder, when it came, shocked him into flinching. Lana reasserted her grip, soft but firm, and they shared a look — from his watery eyes to her unexpectedly soft ones.

            ‘That contact at the Special Procedures Office. It helped a ton. But… you didn’t need to do that for me.’

            ‘He didn’t really give me a choice.’

            Probably the wrong choice of words, because at this, her brow knitted and her breath became too sharp on the intake. It felt nice to have someone get so defensive over him, but he couldn’t give the wrong impression.

            ‘No, not like that. I mean… I… It’s complicated, okay?’

            Lana squeezed his shoulder.

            ‘I meant it when I said you could talk to me any time, you know. No pressure. But I got you.’ She stayed by his side and watched the flames consume the fabric until it was nothing but dust.

 

When Adrian was offered the position of High Chancellor in the House of Lords, Pål turned down the assignment to go cover the event. At long last, his colleague Dave got the opportunity to go and hobnob with Adrian’s contingent, and he had never been happier.

            Slowly, Pål dropped more and more of his political assignments, and poured his heart and soul into investigative journalism. He helped Lana follow up those leads on the Syrian torture case, and every new piece of information he gleaned regarding blackmail and coercion was filed away into the back of his head. For future use against Adrian, he called it, even as he suspected such a thing would never come to pass. Lana never pressed him to talk, but, savvy as she was, she always managed to pass him as much useful information as possible.

            And, for a while, nothing changed. Until, one ordinary day, a phone call broke through the haze.

            ‘Marco? Marco Wesker?’

            ‘Aye, the very same, lad. Now, listen if you’ve a mind.’ Marco had called during a busy spell — Pål had a rush assignment to complete and had pretty much only picked up the phone because he was expecting a call back from someone else.

            ‘So, eh, I saw the piece you wrote.’

            ‘Oh. Yeah — my boss didn’t give me much time to edit, they kind of rushed it through after they got the go-ahead…’

            He was at a bit of a loss for what to say next, but luckily, Marco seemed to have come to the conversation with an agenda.

            ‘Nah, son, you did good. Good as anyone could’ve done with the information at hand.’ A pause, then Marco said, ‘I still think it was ‘im.’

            Pål’s breath caught in his throat. He swivelled his chair around, shielding himself from the rest of the office as he replied.

            ‘I … what do you want, Marco?’

            ‘I want you to help me. I know you know it was ‘im, too. I could tell by the tone of your words in the article, like. I could tell—’

            ‘Marco, I—’

            ‘—We could take ‘im down together. Look, we both know ‘e ‘ad the motivations for it. We both know.’

            ‘We have no evidence.’

            ’That’s where you come in, in’t it? You can investigate that stuff.’

            ‘We wouldn’t get anywhere. Believe me.’

            There must have been something in his voice, because at this point Marco relented.

            ‘Threatened you, did he?’

            Pål glanced over his shoulder to check nobody was listening.

            ‘Well, it’s complicated. But … yeah.’

            ‘Right. Sorry ‘bout that.’

            A silence fell over the line, where neither knew what to say. Then Marco huffed out a breath.

            ‘Well. Consider it, okay? Bastards like that shouldn’t… shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’

            Pål couldn’t fault him for that. He so badly wanted revenge. In his dreams, he had seen Adrian indicted at court, stripped of his titles and his ill-made fortune, his crimes revealed for all to see, and what a wonderful thing that would be.

            But maybe the real world just didn’t work that way. _This is your education_ , Adrian had said, and god, it was a cruel one.

            ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. Then he put down the phone, and returned to his latest assignment.

 

Nights in Meldacio were always the same. It didn’t matter how many months had passed — time stood still in this place. The rafters of the Hunter’s Lodge were warm and uplit by crystal lamps, and the patter of rain, that ever-present, rhythmic rain, on the aging roof cast a nostalgic mood over everything. He watched, distracted, as Ezma busied herself making pies in the kitchen while bards and travelling minstrels took turns at the stage. It was so full of activity that he almost had to resort to leaving the inn. Or, at least, filtering his chat window. But he was doing fine on his own, passing the time while he waited for his friends to arrive.

            And nobody recognised him anyway.

            Dino had taken up his guitar again and was strumming away the start of a soulful tune. One he remembered. And, even as he thought _Dino_ , _what a ridiculous name,_ he was struck by the tune. Not such a distant memory it called up, either, but one from mere months ago. One that had preceded a long train ride to the southern coast and an encounter with… _Yeah, as the song says. A man wounded in hatred._

He listened for a while longer, masking his anger behind an expressionless face. When the song was long over and he was done with his drink, he rose to go.   

            ‘Yngve Freyr? Ain’t seen you around before.’ Dino had stopped him, casting a roving eye over his battle dress. Probably wondering at the white and gold embellishments on the thin, figure-hugging fabric. Just as well he hadn’t kept his equipped weapon visible. The trident would certainly have raised some questions.

            ‘Uh, yeah. I mean, I’m a returning player, so I know the place, but…’ He trailed off, looked around awkwardly. ‘Nice song, by the way. You play really well.’

            ‘’Preciate it.’ Dino’s avatar paused; he must be checking over his stats on EosNet. ‘So, Oracle, huh? Hard class to master.’

            ‘Might be a bit ambitious… but it’ll be indispensable for endgame. I hear there’s some good content in development down the line…’

            ‘Yeah. You certainly came at an interesting time. All that crazy stuff with the Chancellor of Niflheim an’ all.’

            ‘Right.’

            ‘And those map leaks — aw, man. Yeah, it’s like a soap opera or somethin’.’

            A ping distracted Yngve.

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Oi Prom! U comin?

            [Noctis Lucis Caelum] Um. Yngve, I mean. Sorry… Bad habit

            [Yngve Freyr] Np dude. Omw

            Chat log hidden once again, Yngve looked around, and exhaled deeply.

            ‘Well, I should go meet my friends.’

            A nod from Dino, and a friendly nudge.

            ‘Take care on the road, now. Daemons come out at night.’

            ‘Yeah. Don’t I know it.’

            He waved farewell to Dino, and headed for the door. Maybe it was time to show the Chancellor all he had learned.

            And with that, the Oracle stepped out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think he gets his comeuppance in the end.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Yngve Freyr is an amalgamation of Lunafreya (he's the closest-named norse god to her name) and [this gorgeous artwork from chocobaes on tumblr](https://chocobaes.tumblr.com/post/154782758661/more-from-the-fateswap-au-with-oracleprompto-i).  
> Pronunciation isn't too important but it's basically like (Ing-veh Frayr)
> 
> Gdi I got too attached to these characters and I'm sad it's the end.


End file.
